Destiny's Arrow
by sarahannmarie123
Summary: She is dangerous, calculating, and arrogant. But she is also kind, beautiful, and a warrior without equal. What will happen when the famed Hero of Fereldan and the Prince of Mirkwood run into each other? Will the two Elven cultures clash, or will they be able to work together? Set in Middle Earth during the times of the Hobbit, two years after the blight.
1. Chapter 1

**Legolas**

The sound of battle roars through the afternoon sky like an enraged dragon as I make my way down the river after the escaped dwarven prisoners. Orcs, hideous and of all shapes and sizes, tail the party as well, attempting to strike at the dwarves with their weapons from afar without falling into the clear blue rapids below. Remarkably not one has landed a blow past the barrels the dwarves have encased themselves in, and their attempts to stall them have been remotely unsuccessful due to the swiftness of the current that carries the small dwarves away with ease.

I cannot say the same.

Although my targets are not Oakenshield and company per se, I take out all orcs I come across, sometimes killing multiple at once. Most of which are dead before they can identify their killer, others only catch a glimpse and then an arrow or a dagger is lodged deep within their skull or throat.

As I near the doors where the dwarves path has been closed off, my bow firm in hand, I notice Bolg leading the orcs that are assaulting the dwarves. Our guards lie dead at their feet, blood pooling from their lifeless bodies. The orcs appear desperate to kill the dwarves as they slice at them with their weapons, but their targets are fighting them off quite well considering they're cornered with the doors closed and only stolen weapons they must've acquired by accident down the river.

Moreover, the scrawny one Tauriel spoke with earlier has managed to climb out of the water to reach for the lever that can open the doors. The only obstacle that blocks his task is an arrow that has struck his calf, leaving him writhing on the ground, groaning in pain like a worm.

I stop for a moment to take in the sight.

_I must recapture them quickly, before the gates can open. They cannot go free_.

Swiftly, I maneuver my way further down the river, cutting through and shooting down any foe that dares block my path. One after another they fall, their corpses falling to the waters below as I rush along the edge. After jumping to the other side of the river yet again, I land on a flat rock. I look to the dwarves again. As I do, I hear an arrow shoot past me. I look just in time to see an elven arrow pierce an orc that's about to strike the scrawny dwarf with an axe. Without looking, I already know it was Tauriel. No other guard could achieve such a shot from that far a distance. My suspicion is only confirmed when I glance over my shoulder and see her and a few other guards a few paces behind me.

But an arrow whizzes past Tauriel and me from much farther back.

I follow its path only to see it strike the lever hard enough that the doors open. The dwarves immediately pull their wounded comrade back into a barrel, brace each other for the fall, and escape down the river and out of our immediate reach. I glance back in the direction of the shot and a foreign elven woman with long black hair and fair skin runs past Tauriel, a longbow in hand. While she runs she shoots at the orcs closest to the dwarves and takes them out with lethal precision, her lithe body dodging any attacks intended for her smoothly, her movements as fluid as the flow of water and her blue eyes just as clear, showing no fear or struggle.

Before long, she has caught up with me. But sooner than she can pass me, a handful of orcs launch an attack on us from both sides, stopping her from moving forward or escaping. The two of us cluster together and look over our opponents. She growls something under her breath and then the next second, the two of us are back to back as we take out the charging orcs with a mixture of our bows and daggers.

Between opponents, I catch glimpses of her in action. Not once does her stance falter despite her being a foot shorter than Tauriel and engaged with a much larger enemy. And the aura of confidence around her remains constant as well, which I strike as odd considering her lack of armor or clothing around her midsection.

Soon, the two of us are down to our last orc. I end mine quickly by launching forward and plunging my dagger into the orc's eye. Once he has fallen, I spin around and draw my bow and arrow.

Panting for breath, my gaze focuses on the woman before me, my arrow aimed straight at her heart. Her bow and arrow are drawn as well, directed at me in kind. For a moment we merely stare at each other, and then Tauriel and the guards surround us, their weapons drawn and pointed at the stranger.

Realizing the disadvantage, the woman glances around. She then drops her weapon and laughs. "I bet you ten silver you will regret this later, prince," she utters with an odd accent I'm unfamiliar with, her blue eyes glued on mine. "I guarantee it."

"Enough." I lower my bow and turn to Tauriel. "Tie her up and confiscate her weapons. We're taking her back with us."

* * *

><p>To my surprise, the way back was quiet—minus the grumbling from the orc we captured. The woman never said a word. She only looked at me once and smirked. A blizzard raged in her eyes, one of which the intensity I've never seen before.<p>

But she did not complain, not even when she was thrown into her cell and stripped of her weapons.

That coldness is all I can think about now as I stare down at the lifeless orc before Father now, the decapitated body lying motionless in a pool of its filthy blood.

"My, how unbecoming," the woman's accented voice suddenly purrs behind us. Father and I turn to face her. Her wrists are tied behind her back and two guards stand at her sides. The corner of her lips are curled up with contempt as she eyes the two of us. "For a king to close off his kingdom while the rest of the world is in peril, no wonder the mortals hold no respect for us."

"Quiet, girl! You will speak when spoken to," one of the guards snaps and drags her closer.

Father narrows his eyes at her, his eyebrows furrowed. "Who is this?" he asks and looks to me.

"She is the woman we captured at the gates. She helped Oakenshield and his men escape," I explain.

Father quietly snorts through his nose and refocuses on her. "You are not one of us yet you address royalty so casually. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Only that if you do not release me immediately, Smaug and Bolg's underlings will be the least of your worries," she snarls.

One of Father's eyebrows quirk up. "Bold words from a prisoner. Are you perhaps unaware of your own predicament?" he asks.

She grins. "The fact that I still remain bound shows that you are the one who is unaware, your highness. And you would be wise to heed my words, lest you anger me further."

"What have I to fear from a lone woman?" Father laughs. He then makes his way to leave and waves the woman and guards away. "Lock her up. She will be dealt with at a later time."

The woman chuckles and looks briefly down at the ground. "Tell me," she calls after Father before the guards can grab her. "Who do you think of at the mention of the wood elves of Thedas, Fereldan in particular?" she asks.

Father stops. He looks back at her, a quizzical look on his face. His eyebrows crease together as he considers her words, and then they rise and his eyes open wide, some form of realization crossing his mind.

The woman smiles. "Ah, it seems you've finally understood. Good," she murmurs and looks back down at the ground. She then looks up and glares at Father, murderous intent clear in the endless blue. "Now unless you wish me to destroy your kingdom from the inside out, you will untie me immediately! Am I understood, Thranduil, oh _noble_ king of Mirkwood?" she shouts, authority coating her voice like moss does a rock.

Father jolts and everyone looks to him, uncertain how to react. "Release her," he utters, his eyes fixated on the woman.

The guards stare at him in confusion. "Your Majesty..?"

"I said release her! Now!" Father yells and scowls at the men. I watch him just as perplexed while the guards follow his sudden change of heart. When the woman is free from her binds, she rubs at her slender wrists and Father bows his head deeply. "My humblest apologies, Warden," he says. "Had I known you would be gracing us with your presence, such misunderstandings would have been avoided."

"I'm certain," she scoffs and crosses her arms, her cool gaze scanning the others in the room, myself included. "Based on the expressions of your men though, they have yet to catch on to the situation. Allow me a proper introduction," saying this, the woman lowers her arms by her sides and stands tall, her small hands balled tightly into fists. Her firm gaze is directed straight ahead, a power hidden deep within their depths. "My name is Aranel Mahariel, Grey Warden, descendent of the Dalish Sabrae clan, and Hero of Fereldan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She bows her head then refocuses on Father.

Surprises racks through me and my breath catches in my throat.

_Hero of Fereldan? No.__I look at the foreign elven woman. I take in all that she is— her long dark hair, small frame, scarce leather armor.__This is the woman who single-handedly defeated three dragons and decimated almost half a horde of darkspawn on her own? The woman of legend from across the sea?_

No matter how hard I look at her, the words don't seem to add up. How can a woman so small and lean, whose armor barely covers her curves, be the woman of legend? She must jest. For although her stunning looks match the description I've heard of her in stories, such a powerful woman would not be captured so easily… unless that was her plan all along, knowing such an act would happen.

Her words from earlier suddenly replay in my head. "_I bet you ten silver you will regret this later, prince. I guarantee it."_

Dread fills my stomach. The statement only furthers my suspicion. _How I hope I'm wrong._

"Pray tell. What has brought you to our woodland realm?" my father inquires during my quiet reverie.

I jolt back to the present moment and stare at the two before me. He poses a good question. Why would the Hero of Fereldan be in Middle Earth in the first place, if her words are indeed the truth?

Aranel purses her lips and stares at Father with disdain. "Up until my capture, I was lending my assistance to the dwarves serving under Oakenshield. After all, who else better to ask to fight a dragon than a warrior who's already slain one?"

She pauses and takes a few steps to the side before refocusing on Father, sparing a quick glance at me.

"Unfortunately however, my job was interrupted not once but **twice**. The first being when my company was imprisoned within your walls, and the second… well, that's self explanatory."

"Again, I offer my sincerest apologies. We were unaware you were among their company," Father attempts to reassure her.

She nods once. "True. This I can understand," she replies and crosses her arms. But then her eyes grow harsh again. "What I do not understand however, is why even after hearing Thorin's request you still refuse to lend aid without having him indulge your selfish desires."

At these words, Father's taken aback and it can be seen in the way his eyes snap wide open with alarm.

She smirks in response, the reaction apparently one she was expecting. "Yes, I overheard your conversation," she continues. "Your walls are far less secure than you realize," she says and looks around the room. "Sneaking in was easier than unlocking a broken chest. But that should be the last of your concerns." She stops and paces a few steps. "From your conversation, I gather you do not understand the severity of the situation." She halts and stares at Father. "I come from a land who has just overcome a blight—one that united all of Fereldan for the sake of taking out the enemy and nothing more. Yet here you stand, refusing to lift a finger, hiding in the shadows like a cowardly rat while the rest of Middle Earth crumbles at your doorstep. And for what? Thorin refusing to lend you a hand as you did to his people in the past?" she nearly spits out the words, her anger apparent in her scrunched up expression, ruining her dazzling regal features.

She takes a couple steps closer to Father and the guards prepare to intercept her, but I hold my hand up to have them hold.

"If their attempt fails, how long until Smaug and his men are banging at your doors?" the Warden persists. "Do you think you can simply lock yourselves away and take the army out later yourself, that they will not dare come for you?" She scoffs and shakes her head. "Do not be a fool. By then, their forces would have multiplied and you would have no allies in sight. You're only hope is to gather your forces and fight now, otherwise your kingdom will fall along with the rest of Middle Earth! If you don't, then all of your people will die!"

Silence descends the hall. No one says a word while the two political figures lock gazes with each other.

Several moments pass before the Warden's gaze softens and she takes a step back, looking almost alarmed at her reaction. "My apologies," she whispers. "I did not intend to vent my frustration on you. It is your decision how you and your people handle this situation. I let my feelings get the best of me. For that, I am sorry."

Father takes a deep breath and his lips form a thin line. "Your words are not lost on me, Warden," he says and closes his eyes. "I will… _consider_ them."

Without another word on the matter, he reopens his eyes and shifts his concentration on the guards.

"Fetch her belongings and return them immediately," he orders meekly and the two guards bow and rush to complete his command. He then looks at the woman. "Warden, to make up for the treatment you received here, allow me to prepare a boat for you so you may catch up with your companions. My son, Legolas," he motions to me, "will accompany you along with our captain of the guard. While the boat is being prepared, please join us in a feast to formally welcome you into our kingdom. In the morning, you may set sail with my blessing."

As soon as he's finished speaking, the guards return and hand the Warden the weapons we confiscated. She hooks the daggers on the straps on her thighs and slings her quiver full of arrows over her shoulder. She then stares at Father and weighs his words carefully, her longbow tight in her hand. "Very well… if that is what you wish," she permits, although I see the reluctance when she avoids eye contact.

"Legolas," Father address me then. I wait for what I know will be new instruction. "Please show our honored guest around then guide her to her resting quarters. I imagine she needs her rest." I nod and bow slightly. Father then walks away and motions to his attendants. "Come. We have much to prepare," he says to them, and then they disappear down the nearest steps.

The guards excuse themselves as well, and I signal for the Warden to come along with me. She does so quietly, and I watch her in the corner of my eye as we proceed down one of the nearest halls. "You remember what you told me earlier when we captured you?" I ask and focus straight ahead.

"Yes," she murmurs.

I dig into my pocket then hold out my fist for her. She opens her palms and I place ten silver coins in her hand.

With an amused snicker, she follows me down the rest of the hallway, ten silver pennies richer and a smug smirk plastered on her tiny face.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I never thought I'd write a fanfic for Dragon Age and the Hobbit, but here I am. *Sigh* This site leads me to strange places, but at least my imagination enjoys the view. Hope you liked this! I have no idea how I feel about it to be truthful. If you have any comment or suggestions, please let me know either in a PM or review! Thanks and happy reading! :)<em>**


	2. Chapter 2

**Aranel**

A feast fit for an entire village now lies before me on the Great Hall's elongated wooden dining table. The grand assortment varies from fish, bread, approximately six different types of meats, fruits, vegetables, and an endless supply of red wine in kegs at the center.

There are only thirty or so elves in the room, all clad in luxurious clothing, looking elegant and regal like the elven tales of old. Most of which I assume are nobles of the highest order or serve as advisors for the king. The superior look they have in their eyes tells me most have probably never broken a sweat in their life, let alone deigned to associate with anyone who has.

The prince—Legolas—sits across from me on the other side of King Thranduil who's seated at the head, also appearing quite at home as he bites into some white bread despite the grandiosity of the entire spectacle. His long blond hair falls gracefully past his shoulders, complementing his fair skin and pale grey eyes that he inherited from his father—all of which make him look more ethereal than many of the other elves present, although all of them appear more elegant and beautiful than the elves back home. Between bites, Legolas converses with some nearby nobles along with his father. I have yet to say a word since the feast has started, and find myself staring down at the silver plate covered in delectable looking food with disdain.

If the Keeper were to see our people living in such a fashion, holed up in some giant building, squandering our wealth when so much will more than likely be wasted, she would be thoroughly disappointed. I certainly am, although I dare not voice it or risk Thranduil ordering to take the food away and replace it—_Creators, I wouldn't be able to handle it if such a thing happened._

Reluctantly, I take a bite out of a red apple I grabbed. The moist and fruity taste fills my mouth and my taste buds tingle with delight. When I swallow, I notice the older male elves sitting beside Legolas eyeing me quietly. They whisper something to each other and then the one closest to Legolas, a lean man with a dark receding hairline, makes eye contact with me. "Warden, if I may be so bold to ask a question," he says, and all the nearby nobles, including the king and prince, stop eating and shift their attention on me.

I glance around at the elves and place my apple down. "Go ahead," I nod.

The elder noble leans forward a bit. "Is it true what they say? That you alone have slain not one, but three dragons?"

"Yes."

The elf furrows his brows, a look of incredulity crossing his face. "Pardon my rudeness, but _how_? Surely you must've had some form of help."

The corner of my right eyebrow arches up. "No, and why would I? If one can read all the moves of their opponents, you shouldn't need help. Dragons are no exception. In fact, they're far more predictable than others. All you need is a weapon and be able to move fast so you don't get caught in a wave of dragon fire. Nothing more."

Legolas shakes his head and looks down at his plate. "You speak as if slaying a dragon is a simple task…" he says.

"Oh, no. I never said it was simple," I respond. "Slaying dragons is not for everyone, nor do I recommend it. As a Warden though, it is different. It is expected of us to rise to the occasion. Had I never become one, such feats may have never been accomplished by my hands."

The brown haired elven woman beside me shifts in her chair, angling her thin body in my direction. "How is it you became one?" she questions, her blue eyes fixed on me. "There have been many a rumor, but no one in Middle Earth knows the truth."

"What rumors have you heard?" I ask. _"__That's probably the best way to start…"_

"Well, the most popular one is that you took out a large group of darkspawn on your own and the Grey Wardens instantly recruited you. Others suggest you found them in order to seek revenge for the death of your clansman. There are more, but these seem to hold the most weight," she explains and other elves mutter in agreement.

I purse my lips and look down at the table. "Well, those aren't exactly wrong, but they're not completely right either."

"So the truth…?"

"The truth doesn't matter," I say and look out at the curious elves. "I became a Grey Warden in order to stop the blight. How that came to be, I'll leave it up to you to decide."

The woman bows her head once. "Fair enough. My apologies, Warden."

"There's nothing to apologize for. It is only natural to be curious."

With that, I finish my meal in silence, listening to the elves talk quietly amongst each other, the newest gossip already forming within their ranks.

* * *

><p><strong>Legolas<strong>

Music, songs, and joyous dancing fills the Great Hall now after the conclusion of the feast, creating a celebratory atmosphere identical to yesterdays Mereth e-nGilith, the Feast of Starlight. The nobles and advisors appear to be enjoying themselves thoroughly as they mingle with one another, yet as I scour the room, my eyes cannot locate the guest of honor among them.

Over the crowd, Father gives me a stern look. He apparently has noticed as well. Pursing my lips, I search the hall again to no avail. She's gone, slipped away when I wasn't looking.

Concerned now, I exit the Great Hall, hoping she's only stepped out for a moment and hasn't run off to cause more trouble. The worry growing, I climb the nearest stone steps as fast as I can and continue to search. As I make my way down the long pathway leading to the royal guest rooms, I see her. She's lounging on a stone railing, watching the revelry below.

"There you are," I sigh and approach her. She looks up and I stop in my tracks. Her majestic features are accentuated under the pale moonlight to the point where it makes her look more like a doll rather than the vicious warrior I saw out on the battlefield mere hours ago. "You wandered off. Do the festivities displease you?"

"I've never been one for parties," she replies and turns her gaze to the side. "All the forced smiles give me a headache."

Aranel pauses and looks me over, a spark of curiosity apparent in her cerulean eyes.

"Tell me. What do I owe the honor of the prince's company?" she asks.

"You are our honored guest. It is my duty to see to your well-being while you are in our care. And that is what I intend to do."

Aranel laughs softly. "Why you're father insisted on such a thing is beyond me. Does he really think of me a gentle flower that cannot care for myself, I wonder?"

"I'm certain he meant no such offense," I assure her and sit down beside her.

The corners of her lips curl up into an amused smile. "As am I."

Aranel returns her gaze to the people below.

While I watch her, a thought crosses my mind. "Would you allow me a question?" I ask.

"I may."

I shift my body toward her and she faces me. She's attentive but not unwelcoming, more curious than hostile. "Why did you leave your homeland to help ours? Most would simply turn their heads and look the other away. Yet, here you are."

Her ruby lips form a thin line and she looks down at her lap, her line of sight far off while my words process. "If Middle-earth falls, the rest of the world suffers as well," she starts. "Perhaps not immediately—but in time. As such, it would be careless to turn my back on others misfortune, especially when its people come to me directly." After saying this, Aranel smiles and lets out a faint laugh. "Besides, it's apparently my job to save strangers lives." She shakes her head and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "How such a conception formed is beyond me."

I lean forward and tilt my head toward her. "You saved your countrymen's lives. It's only natural that others would turn to you in times of dire need. They are merely looking for guidance from someone who was once able to restore hope when there was none."

She nods then looks into my eyes. A flicker of light and power are hidden deep within their depths like the first stars in a darkening night sky. "Yes, but wouldn't it be grand if there came a day when they wouldn't need to do that? When they could turn inward to themselves instead of waiting on others, and decide for themselves what needs to be done, even if it means going against the will of another?"

Aranel's words hang in the air, swirling in my head for many a moment until the next thing I know, she pats me on the shoulder and stands up, a smirk playing across her lips. A slight feeling that her words hold deeper meaning directed towards me crosses my thoughts and weighs on my chest, but I dare not consider it further, fearing she has some form of ancient insight.

Glancing over her shoulder, she bows her head to me once, the smirk gone from her lips. "Goodnight, dear prince," she says, her eyes now cold and devoid of emotion. "If your Father asks, I have retired for the evening. The feast was grand; however, I need my rest. I will see you all in the morning."

And just like that, Aranel disappears down the walkway to the guest rooms without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Aranel**

The full moon is now high in the sky and I lie in bed awake, staring up at the white raised ceiling, tracing my fingertips gently across the cool, iron blade of one of my daggers.

The silence around me feels odd, unfamiliar, and dull. I suppose this should be no surprise considering my past company. For more days than I can recall, my nights in Middle-earth have been far from quiet. Whether it involved fighting for our lives, the dwarves rough housing with one another, or Bilbo grumbling about our selection of food, the nights at camp were always lively—some nights it was thoroughly impossible for me to shut my eyes and rest.

Yet here I am, lying in a warm bed in silence, unable to sleep now more than ever before.

My last memory of the dwarves and the hobbit plagues my thoughts. I can't help but wonder if they have made it out of harms reach or if any more of them are injured. I took out as many of the enemy as I could before running into the prince and the other Mirkwood elves. But that large goblin creature—Bolg—he is still out there, and he is not the kind to give up. So long as he lives, he will hunt them, even to the deepest depths of Middle-earth and back again.

The thought makes my nerves twitch.

Gandalf recruited me for one sole purpose: to help defeat Smaug and keep the dwarves safe. If Bolg catches up to them before they can find safety, how am I going to explain my absence to the old wizard? Moreover, although Thorin and I do clash heads, I don't wish to see him or the rest of his men dead—and Creators know he's had far too many close calls on his own.

I could always try and escape to prevent such an outcome, I realize. Creating a distraction among the guards should be easy enough. It's how I got into Mirkwood in the first place. The balcony attached to this room could very well serve as my exit and the forest would then shroud me from sight. Finding the boat Thranduil prepared for me would be the most daunting part of the task, but it should not be too far down the river. Maenor could easily eye it from above and lead me to it, wherever that rascals flown off to this quiet night.

Truly the only downfall would be Thranduil's discovery at sunrise.

Although I do not fear or respect the man, such actions would incur his wrath. I would not be welcome here again—not without scorn or an exchange of harsh, passive-aggressive words. And alas, as much as it pains me to admit it, I cannot risk that. Should this mission go awry, I must be able to call upon them for aid. Not to mention that as the representative of the elves of Fereldan, I would be setting a horrible example for my kin. If the clan elders were to catch wind of such behavior, I would never hear the end of it. Marathari alone would lecture me to our deaths.

Reaching such an unfortunate understanding, I roll onto my side, let out a deep sigh, and shut my eyes, bidding sleep to come sooner rather than later in hopes for an earlier sunrise.

* * *

><p><strong>Legolas<strong>

The light of dawn has only just begun to shine upon the land when next I wake. I ready myself for my journey quietly, being careful not to forget any of my armor lest the trip welcome more battle into our midst. The bare essentials were prepared the night before and will be in the satchels on the horses Father arranged to take us to the docks, thus all that's left to pack are what I'm willing to carry on hand—namely my two daggers, my bow, and a quiver of arrows.

When all of this is set, I sit down on my bed, slip on my boots, then make my way down to the Grand Hall.

Upon descending the main steps, I see Father speaking with one of his advisors. Hearing my approach, he looks up and swiftly waves the advisor away. "Ah, there you are," he greets me. "The Warden is outside. Come." Father gestures for me to follow him, the advisor following a fair distance behind us with a brown cloth firm in his arms.

We walk side by side down the main hall leading to the gates, our steps evenly paced and confidence exuding from the both of us. His gaze is fixated on the path ahead and there's a stern expression on his face.

"Tauriel will remain here while you guide the Warden from this place, as I have new use for her," Father tells me as we walk. "Do not part with the Warden until she is reunited with Thorin and company. During this time, you would be wise to appear your best while you escort her. To have her as an ally would be most beneficial for the Woodland realm. Do you understand the importance of this task, my son?"

Father stops and we exchange looks. From the spark in his eye, it is clear to me that there are some plans I've yet to hear about.

"Yes, Father," I nod.

"Good."

We continue on our way. The guards at the end of the hall open the gates and light filters into the hall. Outside, Aranel can immediately be seen standing by two saddled white horses, a brown hawk hovering above her and about to land on her right arm. Her long black hair falls loosely past her fair shoulders and stretches down the entirety of her back, a slight wave apparent that the morning sunlight emphasizes. The bizarre leather armor she sports further demonstrates the stark contrast of her skin and hair by showing more skin than I believe necessary, especially around her midsection. But I dare not voice it, and I shake the dangerous thoughts from my mind once we approach her.

"Warden," Father stops and greets her with a bow.

The hawk perches itself on Aranel's forearm, and the two turn and watch Father and I carefully, as if inspecting us for the first time. Their blue and gold eyes are fierce, but not threatening—merely curious as they stand their ground.

Father is unshaken by their intense stares and folds his hands in front of him, his prominent chin raised high. "It is the day that we must part ways as you continue your journey forward," he continues in a modulated tone, the kind of which he reserves for formal matters. "Although your stay was brief, it was an honor to have you in our care. Should the day arise when you return, you are most welcome within these halls."

Aranel shifts her body to face us head on. "Ma serannas. You are very kind," she replies, her foreign accent thick on her tongue.

"My son, Legolas, will guide you from this place as promised. However, before you go, please accept a parting gift from one kingdom to another." Father pauses and motions to the advisor that had followed us. The man steps forward and holds out the piece of cloth he carries to the Warden. She steps forward and lifts the cloth to reveal some arrows hidden within. "Let these arrows crafted by the most skilled smiths of Mirkwood serve you well, for your path will no doubt be dark and treacherous," Father explains as she picks one up in her hand and inspects it further. "May they strike down your foes and lead you to victory."

Aranel stares at the arrows, and then with a quick shrug of her right arm, her hawk jumps onto her shoulder and she lifts the arrows into her arms. "I accept this gift humbly and gratefully," she says, "although I regret I have nothing to offer in return save for my thanks."

"That is more than enough," Father insists. "With this, I bid you farewell, Warden. Until we meet again. Safe travels to you and your… companions."

* * *

><p>After parting with Father, Aranel and I enter the forest on horseback. We trail down the river leading to the docks, the morning sun only just starting to rise fully in the east. Her hawk—Maenor she calls him—is perched on her shoulder, glaring at me. His gold, beady eyes haven't left me for an instant since I saw him at the gates. It's a first, as birds are typically fond of my presence. But this one appears to feel nothing but derision. Although it disturbs me, I dare not question it. After all, everything about this Warden and her mission are strange. It would be no wonder if her bird is a bit odd as well.<p>

For an hour the glares continue. Once we reach the halfway point to the docks, Maenor's gaze is at last interrupted when Aranel pulls slightly at her horses reins to halt her horse. I stop my horse beside hers and she looks at me, coldness reflecting in her eyes blue depths. "We are far enough from the gates now, Prince," she snarls, her voice low and coated with annoyance. She glimpses back briefly to the road behind us then turns back to me. "You can turn back around," she says. "I have no need for a guide. Maenor knows the way."

Maenor squawks and flaps his wings once, apparently in agreement.

"No," I insist with a smirk. "It is my duty to accompany you until you are reunited with your companions. And that I shall."

Aranel narrows her eyes at me and frowns. "A stubborn one, aren't you?" she grumbles and has her horse continue down the river.

I blink a few times and then have my horse follow her. "You really do not care for me at all, do you?"

"You pointed an arrow at me, tied me up, and threw me in a prison cell. How that would ever add up to me liking you, I have no idea."

"I did what I had to do," I persist and have my horse ride in front of hers so she would look at me again. "Would you have done any differently if you were in my situation?"

"It does not matter what I would've done in your situation," she retorts. "The fact remains that you were the one who did it. Simple words and small gifts will not change the consequences of such actions, although your father clearly hopes otherwise. Unfortunately for him, unlike many other maidens, my heart is not so fickle as to be bought with costly objects or insincere gestures."

With that, Aranel guides her horse around me and keeps moving.

I watch her and shake my head. "You are impossible!" I exclaim.

"And you are **slow**," she quips. "If you must escort me, at least keep up."

And just like that, Aranel continues down the path of the river, her hawk glaring over her shoulder at me once again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Legolas**

A couple of hours later, Aranel and I arrive at the docks. Our ship is prepared, but we're waiting on the ship for the captain to settle some minor affairs before we set off. Aranel meantime is leaning on the ship's railing, looking out at the water. Maenor is on the railing beside her, plucking at his auburn feathers, reorganizing and tending them the only way he knows how. I walk over to the two and take the free space beside Aranel. "It's nice, isn't it?" I whisper and scan the horizon.

Aranel's gaze remains fixated on the surface of the water. "Hm." A slight breeze sways her dark locks around her thin shoulders.

I rest my elbows on the railing and breathe in the brisk, morning air. "Have you sailed on the water before?" I ask.

Aranel doesn't respond. It's as if her mind is elsewhere.

"Warden…?" I persist.

"Attempting small talk won't work on me, Prince," she says, her attention still straight ahead. "So save your breath."

Aranel steps back, and after sparing a quick smirk over her shoulder, she walks toward the Captain's Quarters.

"I imagine you might need it."

Stunned by her curt response, I furrow my brows and look down at the deck. When I look back up, uncertain how to reply, she's disappeared behind the door and Maenor is watching me. His gold eyes bore into mine. He then lets out a loud squawk that makes me flinch and turns away, giving me the cold shoulder just like his unusual master.

* * *

><p>Our ship is finally on the move in the early afternoon. Aranel has been in the Captain's Quarters for two hours or so now. Meanwhile, I've been sitting out on the deck. Maenor rests on a crate beside me and has once again fallen into his habit of glaring at me. I've done everything in my power to try and communicate with the creature, to figure out why it despises me so, but to no avail. There's been no response, only scornful glares. I attempt to reach out to touch the bird as a final effort, only to have the bird nip my finger. I pull my hand away quickly and stare down at it. A single droplet of red blood forms at the tip, a warning that he could've easily taken my finger off.<p>

"It's useless," Aranel's voice calls out to me.

I look up. She's just exited the Captain's Quarters and is walking towards us, an amused smile on her face.

She stops beside Maenor and scratches the top of his head with two fingers, for which he allows gratefully. Aranel then shifts her attention on me. "As much as your people boast that they have a connection with nature, it does not compare to the elves of Fereldan who actually live out in the forest. Maenor can sense this. As such, your attempts are futile."

I press my lips firmly together. "Are you saying that I lack something?"

"Yes and no," she answers and pauses to push a stray black hair behind her ear. "All that stops you are the stone walls you and your people have barricaded yourselves in, and that air of thick superiority and ignorance you all emit. Change that, and you're golden."

I jump to my feet and glare down at her, anger now burning deep within my chest, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. "You insult my people?" I snarl.

Aranel's eyes widen and her jaw drops for a moment. Her expression then becomes harsh and full of annoyance, as if I'm a bloodsucking leech that refuses to part with her flawless luminescent skin. "No, it is you who insult mine," she retorts and narrows her blue eyes at me. "I know not what you know of the elves of Fereldan, but we do not live in luxury as you and your people do. Many of us are lucky to be alive, to have a place to call home, or a meal for the day. It is because of this suffering that people like myself are able to communicate far better with nature and its inhabitants. To presume that you can compare your abilities to ours despite your good fortune is more of an insult than a slap to the face, especially when all I was doing was answering your previous question, Prince! Nothing more."

Aranel's sharp response pierces through me, striking me to the core. My anger rises, and then it dissipates quickly as I discern the full extent of her words.

I had insulted her and her culture without realizing it. Moreover, although her words were harsh, it is clear from her expression she meant no ill will, yet I assumed otherwise. She was merely providing insight from her and her culture's perspective—one that has had a great deal of unknown hardships that as an outsider I may not possibly understand. I insulted those hardships, her history, and her people, but she would've said nothing had I not jumped to conclusions.

Shock and regret builds inside me at this realization.

Aranel appears to notice and lets out a sigh. She transfers her attention back onto Maenor and pets him on the head again, ruffling up his feathers softly. "You and your people are in need of a reawakening if you wish to regain the former connection with the earth you and your ancestors once had, Legolas," she continues, her tone now relaxed and coated with a tinge of sadness. "You must be able to put material objects aside, step out of your walls, and accept the wilds with open arms lest you continue to be led astray to your ruin. This is not meant as an insult, but a simple observation and a warning based off of my peoples past experience. That is all."

For a long moment, I merely stare down at the floor, grasping the news of our distant kin's suffering. After a long pause, I finally look up. "What happened to them that led to their current state?" I ask.

Her eyes grow dark, darker than a moonless night. "Our homeland—Arlathan—fell to war against the humans several ages ago, long before I was born," she says. "Most of our culture was lost. Those who survived were either forced to live in the lowest parts of human cities as slaves and servants, or escaped to the wilderness to live in exile. I was born to a clan of the latter. The Dalish—that is what we are called. It is because of this that I found Maenor and retain my connection with the wilds unlike many others."

I shift awkwardly in place and bow my head. "My apologies. This must be painful to talk about."

"No," she shakes her head and smiles slightly. "It is the duty of my people to preserve our ancient lore and share it with the rest of our kin, regardless if they hail from our ancient homeland or not. For we are the last of the elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."

* * *

><p><strong>Aranel<strong>

Our ship arrives at the docks of Esgaroth—otherwise known as Lake-town—a couple of hours after the conversation I had with Legolas. It's a bustling fishing town apparently, full of grubby looking shems struggling to get by. All of the ones at the docks eye me in a peculiar fashion—as if in awe—and they bow their heads with respect before quickly shifting their eyes away.

The confusion that courses through me at this sudden change of pace leaves me blinking in wonder until Maenor lands on my shoulder and screeches loudly in my ear.

I flinch and nudge his beak away with my hand. "Stop that," I grumble. "I know. We'll get back to the task at hand."

Pursing my lips, I inspect the area. The prince is currently thanking the captain and dealing with the formalities on the ship. Meanwhile, I'm on the docks. The sun is only just starting to set, causing the sky to turn a faint shade of pink and purple. The coloring mixed with the overall lighting creates a red glow over the water below. It's an odd contrast with all of the wooden buildings leading to the center of town, and it makes it look more like a lake of blood rather than a body of water.

The few people who roam the walkways past the exit of the docks all appear to be in a hurry to go home for the night, as I'm sure they have a right to be—no doubt they've all had a long day by the weary expressions on their faces. Several walkways, however, remain unused. The encroaching darkness casts shadows over these specific walkways, perfect for experienced rogues to disappear in and could no doubt serve as the perfect opportunity to slip away from a certain nosy prince.

As soon as the thought enters my head, I send Maenor to scout the area for the dwarves and hobbit, eager to know their location. Shortly afterward, he returns, circles around me, and flies toward the heart of the wooden town. Legolas then walks up beside me. "This way," I tell him and the two of us exit the docks.

Maenor leads us down several walkways swiftly, forcing Legolas and I to run. There are many twists and turns and bridges over canals. And just as Legolas falls slightly behind, Maenor and I make a drastic turn, then another, and then disappear into one of the many darkened alleyways. Panting heavily, I lean against the alley wall, Maenor perched on my shoulder. I watch the way I came from quietly, but hear or see nothing that would indicate the prince managed to catch up with us. Feeling smug about the matter, the corners of my lips curl up into a smile.

_Serves that spoiled prince right… Now there's no more distractions._

Letting out a faint laugh, I move to turn the opposite way down the alley and suddenly sense a presence leap from the roof above and land right in front of me. I gasp as Legolas' tall figure stares down at me, his grey eyes boring deep into my own, not a single blond hair on his head out of place. "You can't lose me that easily," he says, a smirk playing at his lips.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. "Apparently not," I grumble and put my hand to my forehead. After a moment, I let out a loud groan. "Look, go home!" I insist and wave my hands in front of me with frustration. "I can find the others on my own."

Amusement flickers across his face. "I cannot. It is my duty to accompany you until you are reunited with your companions—"

"And that you shall. I got it." Digging my fingers through my hair, I shake my head. "Honestly. Worse than the bloody Antivan crow with your blighted persistence," I mumble.

Silence then descends the alleyway. Before another word can be spoken, the two of us jolt at a sound from further down the alley.

It's the sound of some kind of large, armored creature moving on the roofs above.

The two of us look up to investigate, then stick to the wall, our breathing hushed.

Its orcs—a lot of them.

They're jumping across the roofs of the buildings, armed and bloodthirsty.

Legolas and I watch from the shadows as the group passes. I count their numbers quietly in my head, the total being just over thirty. When the last of them are gone, I turn to him, my eyes just as wide as his. "Was that…?"

He nods and looks at me. "Let's go."

In agreement, the two of us rush out of the alley in pursuit of the orcs.

Before we can catch up with the group, I hear a crashing sound and screaming. Maenor screeches overhead and flies over towards the source—a building beside a canal, their first target. Legolas and I rush over and see orcs at the entrance. Our arrows rain on the enemy, piercing one by one as we ascend the steps and take out those we see on the roofs nearby. Once at the top, inside the building I see none other than Kili, Fili, Oin, Bofur, Tauriel, and a few shemlen children. Kili is over in the corner of the small room, lying down and wailing in pain—no doubt from the wound he got back at the river. Meanwhile the children cower in the other corner in tears, hiding under a table, and Tauriel stands defensively in front of everyone, her bow drawn, and the other dwarves standing directly behind her, the corpses of orcs scattered throughout the room in front of her.

Tauriel snaps out of her daze when Legolas and I step inside, and then immediately lowers her weapon and rushes over to Kili, her fair, slender fingers caressing at his clammy face. Another orc attempts to storm in through the door at that moment, but Legolas takes him out before I can by stabbing him in the eye with an arrow and then kicks him out over the edge and into the canal. Grasping tightly onto the same arrow, he looks to us. "Come. We must hurry!" he shouts to Tauriel and me, then rushes out of the building, down the stairs, and out of sight.

Neither of us moves. Tauriel looks conflicted over the matter as she shifts her eyes from the door to Kili. Her pale hand lingers over Kili's face while the dwarves make a ruckus beside her and only make the situation worse. I watch as she gulps down whatever hesitance she's experiencing and orders the dwarves to quiet down and help her tie Kili to the dining room table. She starts uttering in foreign elvish while the dwarves carry out her orders and she starts gathering certain herbs from the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Meanwhile, I watch the door and take out any orc that finds its way to the entrance, piling their grotesque bodies on the doorstep or shoving them down to the ground below by use of my daggers. When her words get louder after the last herb is brought to her, I notice Kili's coloring get a little better and hear him mumble a few things to her, at which she smiles and turns away. I walk over to them and look down, expecting the wound to be gone since no doubt she was using some form of elven magic. But to my surprise, it's still there.

I furrow my brows as I glance over the wound. "Your magic is very strange… And most _ineffective_," I mutter.

The room grows quiet.

Everyone's eyes fall on me as I situate myself beside Kili, whose dark eyes are slightly glazed over from pain. He watches me inquisitively, a question there but not enough willpower or courage to seek out an answer. Sparing him the trouble, I lean forward and whisper, "Allow me to take over."

Without waiting for their consent, I gently hover my hands above the exposed area on his leg. I can sense that the damage is deep, but the poison has been cleansed thanks to Tauriel's methods. All that's left is to close it up.

Concentrating my mana, magic flows through my fingers and envelops the wounded area in a blue light. Kili shudders at first and then slowly relaxes, a relieved sigh eventually escaping his parched lips. When the wound is closed, I scan over him. His coloring has at least returned to normal and his eyes are no longer glazed over, so I assume he's feeling better.

To confirm my suspicion I lean forward and ask, "Better?"

He nods several times and I smirk.

"Good," I reply and pat him on the shoulder once. I then step back and face Tauriel, who's looking at Kili's leg curiously, as if mystified by its recovery. "You stay here and guard them while I'm gone," I tell her, and she refocuses on me. "I will take care of the rest outside."

Without another word, I dash out the door and down the steps before she can stop me.

Running through the walkways of Lake-town, I shoot and take out any orc that crosses my path or line of sight, my bow twanging loudly as the numbers quickly exceed my original expectations. Maenor flies by my side, assisting me whenever an orc gets too close by tugging at its hair or pecking at its head enough to distract it and give me some time.

When I have slain perhaps thirty of the filthy creatures, I round a corner. A glimpse of a large, bulky figure enters my field of vision, and then there's a sharp pain in my head, Maenor screeches, and I fall into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Quick Author's Note: **From this chapter forward the story follows the timeline of that in the book. Also if you leave a review, I will return the favor gladly!

* * *

><p><strong>Aranel<strong>

I'm being carried—I can sense it past the darkness. By who, I don't know. All I know is that something soft and warm lies beneath me and its moving.

_Is this fur? Am I on some type of animal?_

I cannot be certain.

The throbbing pain pulsating through my head has cast a veil over most of my awareness. And this same pain weighs heavily down on my eyelids, making it almost impossible to open them.

Almost.

Desperate to understand what's become of me, I call upon the reserves of my willpower and force my eyes open just like I forced the doors open to Fort Drakon the night of the final battle for Denerim. It's blurry at first, and my focus goes in and out, but they're open—a major success within itself.

I can see the ground beneath me, and as I thought, I'm on some type of large, white and furry animal, being lugged around like a sack of luggage. My bow is tucked under my left side and a person rides on the animal to my right, their leg a pale, grotesque grey color and covered in nasty looking scars and bruises. I glance up, and past the haze, I decipher the person to be Bolg. His attention is focused on the road ahead, a fierce scowl on his scrunched up face and his disgusting left eye clouded like a mages mystical crystal ball.

I look back down at the ground, the pain in my head growing more intense the longer I try to keep my eyes open. It's to the point where it's putting me into a cold sweat and my grasp on reality is slipping. At any moment I can fall back into darkness.

_I have to get away somehow before I lose consciousness again; otherwise Creators know what this creature has in store for me._

Summoning the rest of my strength, I call upon the power of my ancestors in my head, gather my mana in my fingertips, then quickly tilt towards Bolg and send a blast of electricity at his chest.

He shouts and is flung off the side of the animal. The wolf then panics and I'm thrown off as well.

Tumbling to the ground, I do a quick roll and crouch low to the dirt, grasping for my daggers latched onto my thighs since my bow separated from me during the fall. Bolg recovers his stance and the wolf steps closer to its furious master, its fangs bare and a low growl rumbling in its throat.

"Accursed, she-elf!" Bolg bellows and draws his sword, the corner of his lip twitching as he glares at me.

I happily return the favor.

He then roars and takes three steps toward me. Two arrows then strike his bicep from the right before he can charge, causing him to stumble to his left and shift his attention on the source.

My body relaxes and I look over to see Legolas jump off a galloping white horse and draw another arrow.

Bolg deflects it with his sword and shouts something in an unfamiliar language. I believe Dark Speech is what the others called it.

I take advantage of the distraction and sheath my daggers, creep over to my bow, and draw it. While Legolas closes the distance between him and Bolg, engaging in combat with his daggers, I shoot a few arrows at the wolf's side, who yelps and retreats a few steps back before it can try to join the attack. Legolas manages to slice his blades across Bolg's chest and the orc follows his wolf. Cursing loudly, he climbs onto his pet and the two retreat into the forest.

Panting heavily, another wave of pain clouds my vision, forcing me to kneel. I lift my hand to my head and feel a sticky wetness. Confused, I lower my hand and past the blurriness, I can see blood on my fingertips.

"Warden!" Legolas shouts and rushes to my side. "Hold on. Everything will be alright," he says.

His large hands grasp my shoulders, and then the world spins and darkens.

* * *

><p>Next I wake I'm lying on the ground. Trees tower over me and fragments of warm sunlight filter through the branches and leaves to dance softly across my face. When I look to the side, Legolas is there, sitting by a stream a few paces away with Maenor—his attention on the crystal clear flowing water and his hands firm around his bow.<p>

I sit up and put a hand to my aching head, the pain nowhere near as severe as before, but still enough to be disorienting upon first sitting up.

"Don't even think about it," Legolas says abruptly.

I jolt and look over at him.

His grey eyes are stern and uncompromising. "You need to rest," he says.

I press my lips firmly together and frown. "I _need_ to hunt some orc," I grumble and search for my bow and quiver.

"Would you listen?" Legolas shouts and stands up, causing me to flinch and refocus back on him before I can get up. His face is contorted with anger, a rare occurrence for the noble elf. "You were gravely wounded. If you go now, I doubt even the mighty Hero of Fereldan will last another blow!"

His words wound my pride more than I would like to admit. "What would you know?" I retort and clench my fists to control my growing frustration. "What would you have me _do_? Let him go?"

His expression softens. "Of course not. But before you pursue him, you need your rest. You can't go anywhere until your head injury heals. It's too risky and you won't be able to make it very far. We can hunt him after you've recovered."

I purse my lips and consider his reasoning. Although I have the will and strength of a thousand men—if not more—a part of me does not doubt that Legolas may be right. I might not get far in my current condition. Bolg did quite a number on me. It's a struggle simply to remain sitting up. He must have struck me with all of his strength—that nug-humping, shite of an orc.

But he is also injured. That is the silver lining in all of this, for it means that the company is safe—for now. Not to mention Bolg's ranks are decimated, so no others will seek revenge for the time being. In a few days time, that may change though. Once they've reformed their ranks, they're free to attack the others again. Do I want to risk it? No. Must I? Perhaps. Do I have time to argue about it? Probably not.

I groan and dig my fingers into my hair, indecision and annoyance racking through me. At this moment, I feel a cloth like material wrapped around my forehead. It's soft to the touch like it's made of silk. My eyes widen and I turn to Legolas.

"Prince," I address him, and he perks up. "You tended to my wound?" I ask, but its more of a statement than a question.

He stares at me in bewilderment and nods once.

I scan over him, and sure enough, underneath his green and brown armor and clothing, I detect a small piece of silver fabric beneath the others that can be none other than the same silk-like material wrapped around my forehead.

Pursing my lips, I shift onto my side and lie down facing away from him, a raging fire swirling within my cheeks.

"You're not half bad," I mutter then hold my breath and clench my eyes shut.

Silence fills the air.

I hear Legolas chuckle. "My apologies, what was that?" he asks sarcastically. "I must be hearing things. I'm afraid I might be going mad."

I scoff and roll my eyes. "_Princes_… Always have a sense of humor," I grumble, but the corners of my lips curl up into a smile.

Legolas snickers and then I drift off to sleep, allowing the darkness to overcome me so I may explore the Fade for another night.

* * *

><p><strong>Legolas<strong>

Five days have passed. Aranel's recovery has been slow and perplexing. Her injuries heal far slower than my own, and she requires sleep like that of Men. It is the first I have encountered one of our race with such unusual characteristics. I have wanted to question her about it, but whenever the thought comes, she either has fallen back asleep or the timing feels wrong.

While I consider the topic further by the stream this afternoon, I hear Aranel's rushed footsteps behind me. "Legolas," she calls, and I turn to face her. She's a few paces away, staring straight at me, her eyes boring into mine. She grasps her bow in one hand, and her quiver is slung over one shoulder and Maenor is perched on the other. "It has been **five days**," she says, her voice low and impatient. "I have rested as you requested, but it has been long enough. I'm going to go after Bolg. And after I've killed him, I will enter the Lonely Mountain. I will stall my search no longer."

The intensity of her gaze tells me she will not yield anymore. She has come to a decision—and whether I support it or not—she will follow through with it, leaving me very little options.

"Then allow me to accompany you," I insist.

Confusion overtakes her. She tilts her head slightly and watches me silently.

"You are still wounded and have yet to reunite with your employer," I explain. "You need all the help you can get, and my duty still stands."

Her lips press firmly together and she stares down at the ground, considering my offer carefully. After a quick groan, she rubs at her neck and points at me. "Just… don't tell the others," she says.

I smile and she turns on her heel to enter further into the forest. After several steps, she stops and glances over her shoulder.

"Come. Or I'll leave you behind," she says and motions for me to follow. She then continues on her way into the forest, walking tall, and determination exuding from her like sunlight from the morning sun.

* * *

><p>We've tracked Bolg's tracks a fair distance throughout the past several days, although it seems he's attempting to lead us in circles. We're now resting along another stream to recuperate our strength before continuing forward. Aranel is knee-deep in the water catching fish, her bow drawn and her eyes scanning the water vigilantly. I sit beside the flames watching her, one of her victims already cooked and resting on a rock by the fire. Skillfully, she once again shoots an arrow further upstream and strikes a fish. The carcass floats to the surface and she picks it up by grasping the arrow.<p>

With a triumphant smirk, she steps out of the water and walks over to me, the trophy firm in her hand. She offers me the new catch, but I shake my head and pick out a piece of lembas from my pocket.

She shrugs and sits down beside me. "Suit yourself," she mutters and tosses the extra fish to Maenor, who's on a larger rock several steps away. She then pickis up the one she's already roasted and inspects her meal carefully. "Would you mind answering me a question?" she asks while she looks over the fish.

I look at her and blink a few times, the new development unexpected. Although I have had many questions I have asked her throughout the past, not once has she asked anything of me until now.

"Go ahead," I urge her, eager to hear her thoughts for once.

She shifts her body toward me and tilts her head slightly. "Why do the dwarves dislike the elves here so much?" she questions. "I've only heard minor details from Thorin and the others, much to my utter displeasure. However, I've yet to get a full explanation from both parties."

Memories of the past associated with her line of questioning immediately flicker through my mind, reminding me of the panic and chaos my people and I witnessed that day not so long ago. The way the city of Dale was so quickly reduced to rubble and smoke is still vivid in my head, the screams of the people it affected even more so. I will never forget it, no matter how many centuries pass or how many battles or disasters I face. The images till this day still haunt my dreams.

"When the dragon first occupied the mountain, my father would not risk sending our men in to fight it," I explain, my eyes glued on the water as I attempt to dismiss the disturbing images. "He deemed it to be a fool's mission, and one with far too few merits to send many of our men to their deaths... The dwarves have never forgiven us for it, and rightly so."

"Clearly," she scoffs and I shift my attention onto her again. She's staring at her fish, a far off look in her eyes. "When I first met Thorin, I had gotten perhaps two words out before he tried to shove me out the door," she says. "That's when I knew I was no longer near Fereldan anymore. It was... strange."

"Are you and your people on good terms with the dwarves in your land?"

Her eyebrows furrow. "No, I wouldn't say that. But we're not on bad terms either," she answers. "A majority of the dwarves lock themselves up in Orzammar, their kingdom they've built underground. As such, we don't typically communicate with one another. The only exception was during the blight when our people fought together. They all got along well enough, I suppose. But there are no grudges between us. I don't believe there ever will be considering the continuous lack of communication."

I sigh and look up at the blue sky above us. "I doubt that even after a thousand years the dwarves will forgive us," I whisper.

Aranel shrugs. "Who can say?" she replies. "We will never know, for death will have claimed us long before then. Such is our fate."

My heart sinks and I turn to her. "Do you… possess the gift of foresight?" I ask hesitantly.

Her eyebrows perk up in a puzzled manner. "No?" she answers.

I stand up and glare at her. "Then why dare say such a thing?"

She stands up as well and scowls at me, as if I was the one who said something wrong. Then her face abruptly relaxes. The color in her cheeks fade faster than a rose suddenly facing the dead of winter, and her eyes grow to the size of small apples. For a few moments, her mouth opens and closes without any words coming out, similar to a gaping fish. And then she gulps down whatever may be stopping her and looks down at the ground for an instant. "Do you… and your people…. still possess immortality?" she finally manages to whisper, a hint of distress and skepticism present in her words.

I blink a few times, not fully understanding what she's asking. And then realization hits me. Alarm settles deep within my stomach like a giant boulder weighing me down. Everything that I couldn't understand a few days ago suddenly makes sense. "You do not?"

She shakes her head slowly, not once looking away. "No," she murmurs then looks back down at the ground. "Our… immortality was lost after the fall of Arlathan," she explains. Her lips remain partially open as if there's more that she wants to say but can't.

I glance around the area in the silence, the disbelief almost knocking the air out of me. It seems unfathomable, enough to almost knock me off my feet, yet the emotion I see in her eyes now—the grief and heartbreak in particular—is even more so. I grasp onto her hands and look into her eyes, understanding the shock and confusion she must be going through. The usual confident sapphires are suddenly timid and mystified like a small child's, a look I never expected from the legendary brave elven woman I met less than three weeks ago. "Perhaps there's a way to recover it," I attempt to reassure her, hoping there's something I can do or say to comfort her, to ease her and her people's suffering even a little.

She pulls away and shakes her head. "I do not know the way…. None of us do. It was lost long ago along with the rest of our culture," she says.

"My father may know," I persist. "After this mission, let us look into it together. We may yet be able to save you and your people."

She flashes me a sad smile and her eyes become glossy with tears. "Ma serannas," she whispers and blinks the tears away. "You… have no idea how much that means to me… to all of us."

Aranel strokes her slender fingers through her dark hair and steps back, blinking quickly several times and shaking her head.

"I…need to go clear my head… _alone_…" she says. "I will be back before dark."

Without another word, Aranel walks into the forest… and for the first time since our journey began, Maenor and I do not follow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Legolas**

It is not yet dawn; however, the bitter early morning air already nips at my fingers. Aranel is panting and sitting on a rock beside me—Maenor perched calmly on her slumped right shoulder.

Throughout the past several days, the three of us have gained considerable ground on Bolg, who appears to now be heading around the lake in the direction of the Lonely Mountain.

During this time, Aranel has pushed herself farther than one would expect without the life of Eldar, almost to a point that would lead me to question her 'good' judgment. Her current labored breathing is only one cause for my concern, her injury and the weary look in her blue eyes being others.

Despite all of this, she has said little more than a few words since our last conversation about her people's plight, and not one of them being a complaint or a request to take a rest… until now.

At this rate, I fear she will soon collapse. Her very pride may be the death of her if she insists on trying to maintain this rapid pace, one that would fell even the most resilient of mortal warriors.

Appearing to sense my growing concern, Aranel looks up at me and we meet eye contact. "I'm _fine_," she says with a cold glare, her blue eyes boring into my own and daring me to challenge her words.

I glance off to the side toward the lake and press my lips firmly together, biting my tongue before she can attempt to start another argument. If there is one thing I have learned during the short time I have spent with this stubborn woman, no matter what I say she will not listen, even if it's in her best interest.

Aranel sighs and stands up, possibly understanding my resolve, and ruffles the dark strands of her hair at their roots. While she does this, a loud roar suddenly thunders in the distance over the lake, accompanied with the faint flapping of large wings. Aranel and I immediately perk up and look to each other, our eyes equally wide.

"That was…"

I'm unable to finish.

Aranel's eyebrows scrunch together and she rushes passed the trees until she reaches the shore of the lake, her bow in hand. I follow behind her, and sure enough, over the dark body of water and in the shadows of night, a large dragon can be seen flying across the far side of the lake from the Lonely Mountain toward Esgaroth.

Aranel clenches her fist around her bow and glowers at the beast. "Smaug…" she growls, and then her gaze turns to Lake-town, perhaps only an hour or so away thanks to Bolg's incessant circling techniques the past few days. She then faces me, the fire that I thought had dimmed from exhaustion returning and threatening to set the world ablaze once more. "Come. Bolg can wait," she says and again shifts her eyes onto Smaug. "We have a dragon to slay."

Before I can answer, she takes off for the town—Maenor soaring proudly at her side.

* * *

><p>By the time we arrive in Esgaroth, the dragon has already flown over the town twice, setting fire to several of the town homes and its tail destroying a portion of the Great House. The majority of the townsfolk are rushing to the boats and paddling toward shore in a panic, the trees there shining like copper and blood with leaping shadows of dense black at their feet. Only a handful of men remain to fight, the archers' bows twanging loudly in chorus with the trumpets call at the watchtowers and walls, and the others throwing water on the flames that arise from the town homes.<p>

As Aranel and I reach the center of town and the heart of the commotion, a man dashes passed us and shouts, "Run! Run for your lives!" before he disappears in the fleeing, shrieking crowd behind us.

Aranel merely shakes her head and scans the air for Smaug, continuing to move forward into the chaos. He roars and as soon as we see a glimpse of him swooping overhead, Aranel stops, grabs my arm, and tugs me quickly around the nearest corner before fire rains down on the ground where we stood. Cursing something under her breath, she dashes out as soon as the fire passes and draws her bow. "Dread wolf take you!" she shouts and shoots an arrow, her bow twanging loudly. Her arrow bounces off of Smaug's side along with several other arrows shot by the nearby archers. Their remnants fall to the ground, broken and shattered to pieces. She frowns and her eyes narrow. Apparently unconvinced her arrow cannot puncture him, she attempts to draw another.

"It's no use!" I grab her arm to stop her. She looks to me and frowns. "Smaug has but one weakness," I explain. "Only a black arrow can pierce through his near impenetrable armor."

Aranel's fierce gaze shifts back to Smaug and then to the nearest watchtower. Her eyes settle there for a moment and a smirk forms on her face. "We may be in luck yet then," she says and motions with her chin to the tower. I follow her line of sight and see a dark haired man on top stationed at a windlass, his eyes fixated on the dragon. A black arrow is loaded in the crossbow and ready to fire.

Smaug roars again and Aranel hands me her bow and quiver. "Stay back," she says and then steps out from behind the building and into the open. She walks out onto a bridge over the nearest canal and faces Smaug as he approaches the town overhead once again. Her eyes close and she starts moving her hands about in a slow, rhythmic motion. A white light swiftly wraps around her hands and smaller particles float up from the ground to hover around her.

As the mysterious magic builds, so does my worry as Smaug grows ever closer. When he is almost in reach of her, he roars. I almost drop her bow and run out to grab her, but then her eyes suddenly open. She thrusts her arms straight out in front of her and the white light shoots out of the ground below Smaug. A sheer white wall forms around him, and although he can shriek, he cannot move for he is imprisoned by the near invisible force. Aranel keeps her arms out in front of her, a harsh, strained scowl on her face, and she glances at the man on the watchtower. "Shoot it now, you fool!" she yells and the human looks down at her. He rushes to take aim, and then a loud crack echoes through the sky as he lets loose the arrow and it strikes deep into Smaug's side. The dragon bellows in pain as it pierces his heart and the walls surrounding him fade. The dragon starts to fall, his body flailing wildly as he shrieks. Aranel remains in place while the people who are nearby run for cover. I catch only a glimpse of the human on the watchtower dive into the water on the other side of the wall to narrowly escape being hit by the dragons tail before Smaug hits the ground and the town violently shakes and nearby buildings crumble. Steam rises up from the water, clouding most of my vision. But passed it, I can see Aranel, still standing on the bridge of the canal, standing tall as she stares down the dragon's corpse only a short distance in front of her.

* * *

><p><strong>Aranel<strong>

Small camps have formed along the shoreline of the lake by midday. Of those who escaped the dragon attack, the sick and wounded almost outnumber the healthy. Bard, the shem that shot the dragon and now the town's hailed hero, has managed to rally the townsfolk despite the tragedy, a natural born leader in the midst of chaos if I do say so myself—no thanks to the useless town mayor who merely cowers behind his guards and whines about everything like a spoiled Orelesian noble. The worthless shem even had the nerve to not only bad talk Thorin and the others, but also has taken a large hoard of the scarce amount of food we managed to recover from Lake-town's smoking remains! The Creators own luck must've shone down on him this day, for before I could shoot an arrow down his throat to see how he'd like the taste of iron and bark, Legolas and Bard pulled me away.

Since then, Legolas and I, along with Tauriel, Fili, Kili, Oin, and Bofur—whom we reunited with after the battle—have spent most of our time assisting the refugees in any way we can. This mainly involves Legolas, Tauriel, and I using our healing arts, and the dwarves performing small errands such as fetching firewood, herbs, and the like.

"There. That should do it," I mutter as I finish healing another injured old man, who apparently barely escaped with his life after climbing out of some rubble that fell on him when the dragon collapsed.

The old man grasps for my hand, his grey eyes almost lighter than his receding hairs. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you. Thank you!" he whispers and kisses my hand, tears forming in his eyes and glistening in the afternoon sunlight.

I nod and pull away uncomfortably. Without looking at the shem again, I stand up to move toward my next patient a few steps away—a young woman with burns down the side of her thin arm. Before I approach her and I'm assuming either her daughter or younger sister, I pause and scan the area.

Legolas and Tauriel are further down the shore healing separate patients and the dwarves are running back from the woods carrying another load of wooden blocks at Bard's request.

While watching the dwarves scurry about, I find it odd that they haven't taken off for the mountain yet. My portion of the job finished after the death of Smaug, for that alone was what I was hired to help with and why I remained. The dwarves on the other hand cared deeply for Thorin and served him proudly. One would think that after the suggestion that he may be dead, they'd run off to the mountain to see for themselves—but they haven't.

It's strange.

Even I would like to know their conditions, as I'm sure they do—this much is evident in their eyes. But the difference is I know I'm most needed here at the moment and because of this I stay. For although Legolas' and Tauriel's magic can ease the shems pain and tend injuries and illness to a point, it's nothing compared to my own, which can cure a wound or illness entirely. The old man is just one person my magic has saved today. The dwarves though do not have such magic or responsibilities, only their own willpower and strength. Nothing ties them back—except perhaps fear or dread. Regardless, I expect they will leave soon. The only question is when.

"My lady," a young girl's voice calls to me from nearby, shaking me from my straying thoughts. I look at the young shemlen, the girl perhaps only five years old. Her blond braids frame her white face and the blue gems that form her pupils eye me anxiously. "My mother…" she whimpers and glances at the woman with the burns, who's lying on the ground, curled up in a small ball.

"I'll be right there." I insist.

My curiosity will have to wait.

* * *

><p>"It's been a long day," Bard says from the shadows as he joins our group at the main campfire, three brown mugs in his hands. He looks to Legolas, Tauriel, and me. All three of us are sitting on a log beside the fire, watching him quietly. "The three of you deserve a good rest. Here." He passes each of us a mug, which I find to be full of some dark liquid I assume to be ale. My nose only confirms it.<p>

"Ma serannas," I say to him and take a gulp gratefully. It's not half bad either. Better than Oghren's odd and questionable brew. Legolas and Tauriel hesitate before taking a sip, the smell possibly catching them off guard, and then lower the mug into their laps, apparently not as impressed.

"I dread to think what may have happened if it were not for your magic," Bard continues and sits down beside two other shems who have also gathered around the fire. "Many of the men and women here now owe you their lives. And I know they will not soon forget it."

"Hear! Hear!" an older man from across the fire says and raises his mug. Several others do as well, cheer, and then they all take a drink. Bard chuckles and I shift in my spot awkwardly.

A man seated a few steps away from us clears his throat in the passing silence. "Never did I think the elves would lend their assistance to us in our most dire time of need," he says, his weary, brown eyes on the flames. "It is… comforting to be proven wrong."

I fidget with my mug and stare down at the ground, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing word from the shem's flabbing lips, bidding for an opportunity to arise for a swift escape to my bedroll for the night. _Creators, this is not my element. Tamlen must be laughing with Fen'Harel right now. _

"Are you well, friend?" Bard asks and I jolt. I look up to see everyone staring at me. Their brows are furrowed with what appears to be concern. "You look pale."

My jaw drops and my gaze shifts around the group. "I… am fine," I answer and purse my lips. "I'm simply… not accustomed to mingling with… _humans_."

Bard blinks a few times and nods. "Understandable," he concedes. He leans back in his spot, his gaze still fixated on me. "You have an accent I'm unfamiliar with. Where do you hail from, my lady?" he asks and I notice several other shem perk up.

"Fereldan—a land across the sea."

His eyebrows rise. "You are far from home then. What has brought you to Esgaroth?"

I scoff and shake my head, grasping tightly onto my mug. "I wonder that now myself."

* * *

><p>A deep breath escapes my lips as I fire yet another arrow into the tree I've been utilizing as a target the past couple days. The arrowhead loudly pierces the bark, hitting the dead center of the trunk and my intended mark beside four of my other arrows. Several other holes are visible on the surface around them, making the tree look more like a giant wooden pin cushion than well…. a tree trunk.<p>

But it is necessary.

How else am I to let out my frustration after being stuck tending to a bunch of shemlen for three days?

As I draw another arrow, I hear someone approach from the direction of camp.

"Mind if I join you?" a familiar male voice speaks up.

I glance over my shoulder and lower my bow to see Legolas, a slight smile on his handsome elven face.

"Go ahead," I answer and he takes the spot beside me.

I take aim with my arrow, and shoot the trunk again, my shot hitting the spot directly next to my last arrow. Legolas draws his bow and after a moment he shoots as well. His arrow splits my last arrow in half. I narrow my eyes at the target and then look at him.

He's smirking.

I roll my eyes and reach for another arrow. I then quickly load it and shoot. It strikes his arrow right down the middle as well, sending pieces of bark from his arrow flying through the air. With my eyebrows raised and the corner of my lips curled up, I look at him. He's eyeing the target with surprise then looks to me and nods once before looking back at his bow.

I stifle a laugh and prepare to shoot again.

"At it again, I see," Bard says as he approaches our range.

Legolas and I lower our weapons and face him. He steps up to Legolas and looks at him. "I bring news. I've sent a messenger to your father requesting aid as you suggested. If he agrees to my request, he should be here in a few days time."

My eyes widen. "Thrandruil?" I whisper and turn to Legolas. "You had him send for your father?"

He nods. "Yes, does this trouble you?"

I shake my head and look down at the ground. "No."

_Yes._

Legolas eyes me warily.

I look away and go back to shooting my arrows.

Perhaps it's the weariness talking or the frustration from dealing with shems for the past few days, but I sense a storm brewing, one that will leave chaos in its wake. Somehow I just know it. I don't need the gift of foresight to make such a prediction.

_Creators, guide us..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:** Well, it's been a long time, but I'm back! I'm sorry for the delay, a lot has happened this semester (mostly good), but I know I essentially dropped off the face of the Earth for awhile, so I'm sorry about that. Anyways, I'm getting back into the habit of posting again and the next chapter is almost done, so stay tuned! Also if you're following my other Dragon Age story, that will be updating soon as well. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Aranel<strong>

Thranduil and the Mirkwood elves arrive two days later on foot adorned in regal leather armor like an ethereal river pouring out of the heart of the woods. Maenor circles the trees overhead, watching my approaching foreign kinsmen as they grow closer to the center of our clustered camp, their well-kempt heads held high and their 'beauty' and cleanliness a drastic contrast compared to the scruffy shemlen refugees whispering and gathering around them.

Legolas, looking as pristine as the other elves despite our conditions the past several days, approaches his father along with Bard, a slight smile at the corners of his coral pink lips.

From a distance, I watch the three of them stop and converse with one another. Although I attempt to move and listen into the conversation with the rest of the shemlen crowd, the nauseous feeling churning in the pit of my stomach I've had the past couple days stops me. It only worsens when Thranduil suddenly glances around and stops to look at me.

Our gaze holds for a long moment and then he returns his attention back to Legolas and Bard as if I never existed.

The flapping of wings sound above me and Maenor lands on my shoulder, his talons resting securely on my armor. I clutch tightly onto my longbow I have slung over my shoulder and purse my lips. Perhaps sensing my uneasiness, Maenor tugs at a strand of my hair and I nod. "I know. I don't like it either," I whisper and Maenor squawks.

All I can do is hope that my intuition is wrong… for once.

* * *

><p>The three converse for a short amount of time and then Bard and Legolas walk with Thranduil through camp, perhaps explaining the predicament. When they come across Tauriel along the way, Thranduil stops and says a few words to her. She then rushes down the shore to the Mirkwood elves, who stand at attention, and barks some orders in Elvish, none of which I recognize.<p>

The elves split up into groups then enter into the forest and return with large logs and various plants that they pile across the shore, one after another. A select number of elves stay behind to start building huts while others venture back into the forest to gather more supplies.

While they work, I move northward up the shoreline so I can watch the Elvenking's movements from a distance. He has separated from his son, and is now watching his heir help construct a hut with his fellow Elven warriors. After the first hut is up and the shemlen crowd cheers, his gaze wanders. It turns to the Lonely Mountain and settles there.

I watch his expression carefully, as if expecting there to be a hint or sign of a plot he may have concocted on his way over here.

But there's nothing.

He refocuses back on his kinsmen, and I continue to lurk in the shadows, my suspicions still swirling in my heart and my bow firm in hand, ready to take aim and fire.

* * *

><p>Eleven days have now passed. I have watched Thranduil constantly, my gaze never faltering from him from more than a few minutes. Although I still harbor strong suspicions about his presence here at Lake-town, there have been no signs that would warrant a cause to my apprehensive feelings except for what I've grown to expect from him based off of our previous encounters.<p>

It's frustrating because overall he has mainly stuck to himself, often only allowing Legolas or Bard to accompany him, thus limiting my chances to speak with him alone and uncover any secretive plot he might be planning. Tauriel reports every few hours to update him on any recent changes within their ranks but nothing more. And during the night, he never has any visitors and only leaves his hut shortly after sunrise.

But despite all of this, I can't brush away my suspicions. There's something about the way he walks, about the way he stared at the Lonely Mountain, and about the way he looked at me upon his arrival—and that something I can't ignore. I can't, although Creators know I'd like to.

As if to confirm I'm not the only one with doubts though, the dwarves disappeared shortly after the Elven King's arrival, perhaps sensing the same ominous feeling I've felt the past several days as well.

There's no doubt in my mind that they have moved onward to warn Thorin and the others, that is, _if _they're still alive.

Creators I hope they are, otherwise Gandalf will have an earful for me next time we meet.

Moreover, even Bard and Tauriel seem somewhat cautious of the Elvenking. Under the shadow of night, I've spotted them quiet a few times watching Thraduil from afar, sometimes for hours on end. But they have not dared to voice their concerns to the public, for which I respectively understand, but the shems seem a bit unnerved as well regardless.

The only one who doesn't appear too concerned is Legolas—that naïve, spoiled prince. Everyday all he's done is dote on his father's wishes, never once stopping to question them or use his own good judgement.

I shake my head at the thought and feed Maenor another piece of the bread I'd scavenged from the storehouse for dinner, for which he gratefully partakes without complaint.

_Andruil's bow, if he actually used that mind of his to think for himself instead of always going along with what 'Father' says, he might make a capable ruler one day. But I don't see that happening anywhere in the near future, as unfortunate for my foreign cousins as that may be._

As if in agreement with my thoughts, Maenor screeches and nudges me with his head against my neck. I laugh and try to move him away as it tickles, but he does it again. "Stop!" I giggle and keep trying to push him away. He screeches again and then this time flaps his wings and takes off towards the shore.

I furrow my brows and follow him off of the range, his behavior perplexing and most unusual. Maenor lands in a nearby tree and looks out at the shoreline leading to the North, screeching once more. I follow his gaze and dread immediately weighs down on my chest.

A horde of people are marching along the shore in the direction of the Lonely Mountain, lit torches and weapons in hand. The Elvenking, Legolas, and Bard lead the group on horseback, and following them are my foreign kinsmen and the healthy survivors of the men of Lake-town.

I eye the group up and down, my heart racing. Maenor shrieks and flies down from the tree to rest on my shoulder again. "Oh no…" I whisper and shake my head. I then glance at Maenor and purse my lips. "Come. There's not a moment to lose," I murmur.

Then, as if Fen'Harel himself is biting at my heels, the two of us take off into the forest and make a path northward around the lake. Our destination: Erebor and the Lonely Mountain, and whatever treasures lie within.

* * *

><p>A few hours have passed and night has now fallen. I have set up camp at the south banks of Dale, not far from the scheming horde's encampment and the ruins of the once prosperous city I've only heard about in old tales.<p>

From my current location I can see their torches lighting up the darkened night sky like small stars that have descended upon Middle Earth. Several men and elves are scattered about around these torches, setting up shelter along the water, their figures illuminated by the tiny balls of fire that I find laughable when compared to my own fire.

But I can't find the will to laugh–not now, not under such conditions.

For although I'm far enough that their voices are out of hearing distance, I can sense their excitement and lust for whatever gold might lie inside the mountain awaiting them, regardless of the cost and danger it might one day bring to this land again because of mortals, and in this case immortals, unavoidable gravitation towards greed.

The thought reminds me of Thranduil–the scheming wretch. I can still vividly recall his expression when he looked at me and the Lonely Mountain upon his arrival.

He knew the implications then of pursuing the treasure and that I would try to stop him. I could see it in his disgustingly grey eyes. But he didn't care. All he wants are those jewels. He can care less about the fate of the outside world or if war comes because of his actions and greed. Worse comes to worse, he'll just lock him and his people up, along with whatever treasure he finds, within Mirkwood's walls, never to be seen again, as if the Mirkwood elves never existed.

"Filthy, traitorous knife-ear. Knew he was up to no good. I knew it!" I grumble and attempt to shake the dreadful thoughts away.

Maenor pecks at the branches beside me and I pick one up to toss into our fire.

I focus on the red and orange flames and the images of Thorin and the other dwarves floating down the river replays in my memory. It's going to be a long night. I'll get some rest then head into the mountain to search for Thorin and the others in the morning. Then if I must, and I find myself all alone, I'll deal with the no good Elvenking on my own. I will not let war and greed spread disaster across this land again. I won't, even if death is all that awaits me.

_Creators, have mercy..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Aranel**

I reach the Lonely Mountain early the next morning when the sun has yet to fully rise. Before me appears to be the front gate, or at least what's left of it. Rubble from a large hole in the gate is piled along the sides and in front, no doubt Smaug's handiwork, whether recent or past I do not know. All I know is that it looks like one giant mess, one I'm hoping any surviving dwarves won't ask me to help clean up.

Maenor soars overhead, searching for any sign of life. When he finds nothing in the surrounding area, he returns to me and lands on my shoulder. I look to him then turn back to the gate.

"So this is the entrance to Erebor," I whisper and inspect the dwarven architecture, my imagining falling short to the reality. "So be it… Let's head inside..."

One step at a time, I climb over the stone rubble and enter the mountain, Maenor flying at my side. Further inside I can see a grand hall. Columns line the walls and lead further in, to the very heart of the mountain and to a place unknown and left untouched for gods know how many generations.

I enter this hall cautiously, my senses working overtime in case there's more than dragon's this kingdom might have harbored throughout the past many years. Creators forbid, I walk in blind **and** unprepared. If I did, Tamlen's ghost would never forgive me. He'd haunt me for the rest of my life and into the afterlife, questioning me as to why I didn't learn my lesson the first time.

When I've reached the halfway mark to the first chamber, I look to Maenor and nod. Understanding my thoughts, Maenor flies off down the hall, past the rubble, and disappears into the depths of Erebor. I continue through the rubble until I reach the end of it and finally find some solid, leveled ground. After taking a few steps forward, I stop and admire the grandiosity of the chamber before me now. Portions of the floor here are covered in gold as if it was splattered everywhere straight from the forges, and the walls tower higher than the tallest trees of Mirkwood. No doubt the dwarves here were on the same structural level as the dwarves of Orzammar, or perhaps even grander. Their statues of their paragons, ancestors, or whoever they might be are certainly larger, and the walls appear even larger despite the dwarves being of such small size.

_I'll never understand such logic, but to each their own I suppose. I wonder if the ones here ever worried about falling up into the sky? Ah, such fond memories..._

I laugh quietly to myself as nostalgia sweeps through me-my first experiences with Oghren especially.

A few minutes later, Maenor returns. He screeches then ushers me to follow him. Swiftly, he leads me through a hall to some nearby stairs. It winds downward, and downward we go. The stairs appear to go on forever, never ceasing after each rounded corner, an endless maze into the abandoned abyss of the mountain.

Once we finally reach the bottom and a doorway opens up, I stop and take a deep breath. Maenor takes off and I slowly step out into the open where the contents of the enormous room Maenor has led me is revealed to me in all of its splendor. My eyes feel as if they buldge out of my head, and I almost collapse to my knees, the breath knocked out of me, the reality overwhelming me.

Mountains of treasure go miles beyond the eye can see, enough to build an entire palace, city, and army made of gold and nothing more. Coins, jewels, gold vases and more–the list goes on. It seems unfathomable.

How could the dwarves make and store so much? For what purpose other to overwhelm and insight riots? I see no other purpose.

I exhale a deep breath and look around then kneel down and pick up some coins into my hand, touching them out of fear that some illusion has befallen me. The coin is smooth and warm in my hand and shimmers in the dim light, the firmness reaffirming for me that the sight is indeed real. Content with this understanding, I drop it back into the pile and follow after Maenor, eager to leave the treasure hall as soon as possible.

I can hear voices now, voices that I recognize. My heart soars and I run further in and round the nearest corner.

I stop a few steps afterward and a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "Thorin! Balin!" I shout.

The dwarves turn to face me, all thirteen of them, and Bilbo included. All but Thorin, Balin and Bilbo are scattered through the treasure, digging and searching for something of unknown origin. They turn to face me and blink a few times, surprised by my sudden appearance.

"Aranel, you live," Balin says with a relieved smile and I run up to them. "Where have you been?"

I shrug. "Oh you know. Dealing with rotten, stuck up elves, killing dragons and orcs—the usual." The mention of dragons makes me pause and look over all the dwarves. They appear to all be well, no burns or wounds that I can recognize—a relief as Gandalf won't have reason to kill me next time we meet. "But that's not important now," I insist to not only the dwarves but myself as well. "Smaug is dead, and the citizens of Laketown have formed an alliance with the Mirkwood elves. They are headed this way."

Dwalin steps forward and scoffs. "Come to claim the treasure, no doubt," he snarls and clenches his large fists.

Thorin raises his hand to calm the over-sized dwarf. "Let them come," he says and paces a few steps, turning his back to us. "They have no claim to the treasures of Durin's folk. Not now, or ever. And as King Under the Mountain, I'll be certain they won't soon forget it."

* * *

><p>That afternoon a handful of elven and human scouts entered the mountain as I expected. But when Thorin called out to them, they did not answer and left without a word. Since then, Thorin has demanded us to keep searching for the Arkenstone, though I fear we will not find it.<p>

He has changed since last we part. His obsession for the stone has grown and I can see it in the way he ogles the horde of treasure like a wolf does its prey. I fear soon he will be driven mad by whatever spell his grandfather fell under, and Balin appears to share the same fear from what I've heard from the other dwarves in passing.

By the time night has fallen once again, Thorin has set up watches at the entrance from dusk until dawn. Currently Oin is on patrol, while the rest of us are gathered in the front hall to intercept any intruders that escape Oin's oversight. A small fire surrounds us, and from here we can hear elven music and feasting at the enemies main camp, which according to Bilbo's inspection, has moved east.

"It sounds like they are having a jolly good time…" Bilbo sighs.

"If you want to join them, no one's stopping you," Dwalin grumbles, his eyes glued on the large axe blade he's polishing.

Bilbo shakes his head. "No. No, I-I was just saying—"

"Dwalin, Bilbo, enough," Thorin interrupts. "Don't antagonize our burglar. He has proven himself one of us."

"Aye, and more," Balin adds.

Thorin stands up and paces beside the fire. "This should be a time of celebration," he says to all of us, his voice echoing through the empty halls. "We have taken back our homeland, and Smaug lies dead. Our forefathers can rest in peace, and we have had our revenge. Let us celebrate this night. Let us celebrate our success!"

The dwarves cheer and look to each other.

"Fili, Kili, your harps," Thorin says to the young dwarves. The brothers happily pull out their golden instruments and start to play, the lovely music filling the hall. Thorin then turns to Bilbo and smiles. "Now Master Baggins, you shall have a celebration the likes the elves and Lake-men have never seen."

* * *

><p><strong>Legolas<strong>

"Soon everything will return to the way it was," one of the six older men from Lake-town says from across the fire, the flames casting shadows on his grubby face, illuminating a long scar across his cheek. The man looks up and scans over our group carefully, his mug of ale tight in hand. "Treasure will flood out of the mountain and prosperity will rain down upon the land."

"Hear! Hear!" the other men around the fire approve and raise their cups of ale.

I look around and exchange glances with the few elves surrounding the fire. We were given mugs of their foul ale as well but have opted to spare our taste buds from the torture.

Another one of the Lake-town men, who's a little heavier than the others, stands up and raises his mug. "And it's all thanks to Bard and that young elven lass," he says and the group nods and mutters in agreement. I make eye contact with him and raise an eyebrow. He purses his lips and fidgets with his hands. "With a bit of aid from the Woodland realm of course…" he adds.

I narrow my eyes and smile. "Only a little?" I ask.

The men laugh and the ones near me pat me on the back.

"Speaking of the she-elf, where has she run off to?" the slimmest one asks. "Why, I haven't seen her since the other night."

"Aye, me as well," the most muscular one agrees.

"Last I saw, she was out at her range with that bird of hers again," the heavier one says.

The one with the scar then turns to me. "Prince, you have spent an awful lot of time with the woman. Any clue where she might've run off to?"

I furrow my brows. _Come to think of it, I haven't seen her in awhile either…_

"No, unfortunately I do not." I reply. "But I imagine she'll return to us soon enough. Be patient, and you'll see. "

* * *

><p>By the next morning, Aranel still hasn't returned to camp. Our unlikely group of humans and elves march across the valley to the Gate. Spearman with the green banner of the Elvenking and the blue banner of the lake follow behind Father, Bard, and I as we alone ride on horseback, our heads held high and proud as a leader's should be.<p>

As we approach and grow ever closer to the Lonely Mountain, I spot an elderly dwarf at the entrance of Erebor, his stout silhouette darkened by the shadow of the mountain. I narrow my eyes to try and catch a better look, but he disappears back inside the mountain before I have the chance. The moment past, I lean back and sigh.

_Oakenshield must yet live…. How… unfortunate._

Wondering if Father had seen the scene as well, I glance to him. If he had, he doesn't appear discouraged about it.

We continue onward through the rest of the valley and stop before the rubble surrounding the remains of the once glorious dwarven gate of Erebor.

Stone is piled everywhere from a hole that must have formed after Smaug's escape, for it was not there several years ago when he still slept peacefully inside. Seeing that it would be unwise to enter the mountain on horseback in such uneven terrain, moreover to greet a potentially armed group of dwarves, Father, Bard, and I dismount our steeds and have three of our underlings care for them outside so we may enter the Hall of Kings with ease.

Our group then enters the long empty halls. As we reach the end of the rubble, fifteen figures await us in the first chamber.

Gathered at the center of the room, before a floor coated with gold, thirteen of which I decipher to be dwarves, two being archers with their weapons drawn—the other two a hobbit… and an elven woman.

I inspect closer, thinking my eyes must be deceiving me. But they are not.

It's Aranel.

She stands beside the scruffy and fidgeting hobbit, a stern and uncompromising look upon her face.

I furrow my brows, disappointment, confusion, and anger pulsing through me all at once. Heat builds up in every part of my body like a raging wild fire, threatening to scorch the surface.

While I stare and struggle to cope with the powerful feelings, we reach the entrance to the chamber and a voice that I recognize as Thorin's hails us in a loud voice. "Who are you that come armed for war to the gates of Thorin son of Thrain, King under the Mountain?" he calls, his voice echoing down the halls.

Our group halts and Bard steps forward looking grim, his gaze scanning over the opposing force. His gaze settles on Aranel for a moment then returns to the dwarven king. "Hail Thorin!" he returns. "Why do you fence yourself like a robber in his hold? We are not yet foes, and we rejoice that you are alive beyond our hope. We came expecting to find none living here; yet now that we are met there is matter for a parley and a council."

"Who are you, and of what would you parley?" Thorin asks.

Bard paces a few steps, his attention glued on Oakenshield like mine is on Aranel. "I am Bard, or have you forgotten? And by my hand was the dragon slain and your treasure delivered. Is that not a matter that concerns you? Moreover I am by right descent the heir of Girion of Dale, and in your hoard is mingled much of the wealth of his halls and towns, which of old Smaug stole. Is not that a matter of which we may speak?" He pauses to let his words sink in, but Oakenshield is unshaken. Aranel must have filled them in prior to our arrival. Perhaps sensing this, Bard continues. "Further in his last battle Smaug destroyed the dwellings of the men of Esgaroth, and I am yet the servant of their Master. I would speak for him and ask whether you have no thought for the sorrow and misery of his people. They aided you in your distress, and in recompense you have thus far brought ruin only, though doubtless undesigned."

"You put your worst cause last and in the chief of place," Thorin answers and spares a glare at Father before refocusing his attention back on Bard. "To the treasure of my people no man has a claim, because Smaug who stole it from us also robbed him of life or home. The treasure was not his that his evil deeds should be amended with a share of it. The price of the goods and the assistance that we received of the Lake-men we will fairly pay—in due time. But _nothing _we give, not even a loaf's worth, under threat of force. While an armed host lies before our doors, we look on you as foes and thieves. It is in my mind to ask what share of their inheritance you would have paid to our kindred, had you found the hoard unguarded and us slain."

Silence descends and all of the dwarves nod.

Bard purses his lips and shakes his head. "A just question," replies Bard. "But you are not dead, and we are not robbers. Moreover the wealthy may have pity beyond right on the needy that befriended them when they were in want. And still my other claims remain unanswered."

"I will not parley, as I have said, with armed men at my gate," Thorin shouts. "Nor at all with the people of the Elvenking, whom I remember with small kindness. In this debate they have no place. Begone no ere our arrows fly!" Thorin raises his hand and the two dwarven archers center their mark on Bard. The human raises stands his ground and keeps his eyes on the towering dwarf lord. "And if you would speak with me again, first dismiss the elvish host to the woods where it belongs, and then return, laying down your arms before you approach the threshold."

Bard glances back at us. "The Elvenking is my friend," he answers. "And he has succored the people of the Lake in their need, though they had no claim but friendship on him." Bard pauses and steps back to join the rest of us. "We will give you time to repent your words. Gather your wisdom ere we return!"

Without another word of exchange between our forces, Bard and Father order our group to fall out. As the ruckus unfolds behind me, I continue to glare at Aranel. Then, once a majority of our army has left, I turn around and leave Aranel and our past behind us.


	9. Chapter 9

**Legolas**

A small personal fire I created burns before me, flickering in the darkness of the trees where we have set up the main camp. Most of our men have retired for the evening, leaving only a few wanderers who move about. But none dare approach me.

A wise decision on their parts.

It gives me the time I need to attempt to quench my anger—if such a thing is possible in one sitting.

However, the longer I glare at the red and gold flames, the less likely it seems. The memory of our earlier encounter is persistent and flashes through my head at every opportune moment. As I recall the experience for perhaps the twelfth time, I focus on the part where I first noticed Aranel.

She looked so calm when we came to call, as if she was completely devoid of emotion, as if her betrayal meant nothing.

I was wrong to ever have considered her an ally. Since the day we first met, she has made it abundantly clear that she's only out to serve the dwarves. She deserves to be locked up in the mountain with them—let the gold keep their company until their deaths.

We have no need for them.

And she is no kin of ours.

"You've been staring out into space for the past hour, mellon." A familiar voice interrupts my thoughts.

I jolt and look up.

Tauriel approaches me, her long red hair falling gracefully down the sides of her fair cheeks. She sits down beside me and tilts her head. "What troubles you?" she asks.

I purse my lips and return my gaze to the fire. "It's nothing."

"Come. Be honest with me," she insists. "You're not fooling anyone."

I glance at her and shake my head.

It seems conversation cannot be avoided.

Reluctant, I nod my head, stand up, and pace a few steps while the words form. "It dawns on me that I have been a fool," I start. "We were nothing but hospitable to the Warden. We showered her with nothing but kindness and respect. And yet, she turned her back on us and defended the dwarves. And for some reason, I thought she was better than that. I thought…"

Images of Aranel's face cloud my vision and I close my eyes, my fists clenched tightly by my sides.

Silence descends upon us and Tauriel stares at me.

"You've grown fond of her…" she utters softly.

My head snaps up. "Fond?" I scoff. "No, you are mistaken." I shake my head and return to pacing. "Who would grow fond of such an overconfident, impatient, and arrogant outsider like her?"

"Say what you will, but your words do not deceive me." Tauriel says with a smile. "You have grown fond of her. If you haven't, her actions would not anger you so."

Furious by her persistence and illogical reasoning, I open my mouth to retort, but suddenly find myself speechless as I consider her words further.

_It's true that her actions bother and perplex me more than anyone else I have ever known, even more so than Tauriel's. Why though I do not know. However, does that equate to being fond of that frustrating woman?_ Images of my time with Aranel flash before my eyes. I remember every one of her expressions, the intensity in her clear blue eyes when we first met, the sadness when I learned of her people's suffering- all of it. But nothing stands out more to me than the moment when I first saw her in the mountain, emotionless and unwelcoming.

Anger pulses through me again. _No, she's wrong. She must be. Her betrayal has merely struck a nerve. That's all. She means nothing to me, I'm sure of it. I was only deluded into thinking of her as our kin. That's it._

While I argue back and forth inside my head, Tauriel stands up and walks up to me, shaking me from my daze. She places her hands on my cheeks, her skin warm to the touch, and looks deep into my eyes. "I'm certain her choice has a good reason," she whispers to me reassuringly and the anger inside of me dissipates. Tauriel then moves away and walks towards our tents. When she's a few paces away, she glances back at me, her green eyes soft and sympathetic. "Come," she calls to me over her shoulder. "You must rest. We have another long day tomorrow, and you must be at your best."

With more questions than answers now, I nod and follow after Tauriel, her words still swirling in my head and confusion weighing down my heart and mind.

* * *

><p><strong>Aranel<strong>

Many hours have past since the encounter we had with the Mirkwood elves and shems of Laketown.

At dawn, banner-bearers returned and demanded that Thorin deliver twelfth portion of the treasure to Bard or be declared a foe. Of course, Thorin did not take kindly to this. So instead of responding vocally, he took Kili's bow and shot at them. Thankfully it merely smote into the speaker's shield and sent them running, declaring the Mountain besieged. I hate to think of what rage it might have incurred if the arrow had actually shot him, but thank the Creators such a crisis has been avoided.

Now that we're all alone again, all of us have gathered to consider the affair, but no one appears to be happy.

"Twlefth portion of treasure…" Dwalin grumbles and shakes his head, moving his long beard with him. The over-sized dwarf stands up and looks around at all of us. "None of them have a claim to the treasure. None of them!" he shouts.

"Aye!" All but Bombur, Fili, Kili, Bilbo, and myself chime in agreement.

Bilbo shifts in his seat awkwardly. "B-But, pardon me if I may, should we not consider giving them even a little bit?" the hobbit speaks up. "Smaug did destroy Laketown, and it's only thanks to their assistance that we got here."

The dwarves glare at Bilbo, all except Fili, Kili, and Bombur whose gaze is directed on the fire.

Bilbo fidgets nervously under the pressure and looks down at the ground. "Or maybe not.." he whispers and folds his hands in front of him.

I sigh and stroke my fingers through my hair. _Well, this is going nowhere._

As if in agreement, Maenor nudges his head against my neck, urging me to move away from the others.

Thorin then stands and paces around the campfire, stopping Maenor's persistent nudging and catching his attention. "Tis' true that we owe a debt to the men of Laketown," Thorin says, much to my surprise. "But that debt will not be paid under threat of force."

"Agreed!" Gloin exclaims, and the other dwarves also mutter in agreement.

"If we don't pay them back soon though, we're going to run out of things to eat," Bilbo reasons. "And as much as I enjoy all of your company—truly I do—I have no desire to be locked up in this mountain more than necessary with nothing but cram, I'll have you know."

"I have to agree with Bilbo on that," I add.

They all turn to me, looking somewhat surprised by my sudden involvement.

"Although I understand your plight and reasoning, Bilbo has a point," I tell them. "Unless there's some form of compromise, we will soon run out of supplies. And when that happens, what will we do next? With no food, and so few numbers to begin with, we'll soon be at a major disadvantage. And moreover, such inaction could result in war being brought into the mountain, and I don't believe we have the supplies or numbers to defend against them."

"If that is to be our fate, then let them come," Thorin replies. "But my decision stands. If they want even one piece of this treasure, they'll have to steal it from my cold, dead hands!"

The other dwarves cheer, their voices booming and echoing down the empty halls.

Meanwhile, Bilbo and I shake our heads—our hopes for a quick and peaceful resolution once again dashed by the stubbornness of the dwarves. Our efforts for logical reasoning dismissed and nothing but dust in the wind.

* * *

><p>Days after our meeting passed slowly. Most of our time has been spent shifting and reorganizing treasure in search of the Arkenstone. And as the days have lagged on, Thorin has become more and more obsessed with the gem, even threatening us if someone withholds it. Just the other day I heard him threaten Dori because he caught him resting instead of searching, which apparently seemed suspicious despite our obvious fatigue. And if that wasn't bad enough, ravens have brought news that Dain and five hundred other dwarves are hurrying from Iron Hills towards the North-East end of the mountain. And with their expected pace, they're only two days march away from Dale.<p>

The very thought makes me want to curse at Balin for even suggesting such an idea to Thorin without consulting with the rest of us first. After all, based off of Thorin's recent behavior and mindset, I wouldn't be surprised if as soon as Dain arrives, Thorin suddenly decides to engage the enemy and start a war.

_Blasted dwarves. Always taking action without considering the consequences. That's how this kingdom originally fell in the first place, and now its descendants may very well be stuck following in their ancestors footsteps._

Heaving out a deep sigh, I lean against a nearby pillar and stare out at the endless treasure hall. We've only gone through such a small portion. And with just the handful of us, it could take decades to shift through all of it. We have to make some sort of compromise or else the mountain and its inhabitants will be doomed.

Exhausted both physically and mentally, I sit down on the ground and watch the other dwarves continue to dig through the vast piles of gold and jewels. As they do so, small golden flecks of light reflect off the treasure and shine on their dirty faces. It reminds me of camp after our party exited the Deep Roads in Orzammar. Zevran, Alistair, and Oghren had grabbed so many items and gold on the way out that we had a large pile as soon as we regrouped with the others. Morrigan's look of utter disgust with their greed was priceless, but Bodhan was certainly pleased. We ate like kings for several nights after that, and our weapons and armor never looked finer.

Recalling the old memories, I can't help but smile. It's hard to believe how fast time has past. Hopefully, they're all doing well now. I ran off to Middle-Earth without telling them, so they might be worried. Alistair is probably desperately trying to find me, much to Anora and the other nobles protest I imagine. But as soon as things have calmed down, I'll send them all a letter. Until then, Alistair has to deal with nobles on his own. I have my own royals here to deal with.

While I contemplate our situation further, searching for a potential answer to get the dwarves to agree to a compromise, I notice Bilbo walk past me and head towards the stairs. I turn to watch him, and notice that one of his hands is deep inside his coat pocket, fumbling with something. When he nears the stairs, Thorin descends the staircase. As soon as Bilbo sees him, he pulls his hand out and I notice that whatever he was fumbling with weighed fairly heavily on his coat pocket. The hobbit and dwarf look at each other, and then Bilbo nods his head and heads up the stairs to go on guard duty.

When the hobbit disappears from my sight, I turn back around and lean my head against the pillar. _What in the Fade is that hobbit up to now?_ I wonder.

But for some reason, I feel like I already know.

* * *

><p>Later that night, the dwarves and I have gathered around our usual campfire to eat our portion of cram. While the other dwarves inhale their biscuits, Balin glances around the party.<p>

"Where has Bilbo wandered off to?" Balin ponders aloud.

"Don't know," Fili replies between bites, "Last I saw him was in the treasure hold."

Balin doesn't appear content with that answer.

"I'll go look for him," I assure him and stand up.

The old dwarf's shoulders relax. "Alright, but don't be gone too long," Balin calls behind me as I walk away.

I wave back to the dwarf and then raise my arm and whistle for Maenor. He screeches, flies over to me from the statue where he was perched, and lands on my arm. I position my arm so he's right in front of me and look him in the eyes.

"You followed him earlier, correct?" I whisper to him so the dwarves can't hear.

Maenor squawks and bobs his head.

"Take me to him."

With another screech, Maenor flaps his wings and flies down the hall. I run after him and he takes me to the secret door the dwarves entered through when they first arrived. The door is creaked open slightly, allowing a slight cold breeze to enter the mountain.

"Bilbo was definitely here," I mutter and put my hand on the cold stone. "And I have a feeling I know exactly where he has gone."

With a quick glance back down the hall, I heave out a deep sigh, exit the mountain, and run as fast as my legs can carry me to the enemy's main camp.

_Creators have mercy on this troublesome hobbit. Gods know he needs it._


	10. Chapter 10

**Aranel**

The moon is high in the night sky by the time I arrive at the enemy's main camp. Few elves and shems are awake and wandering about at this late hour, which makes it easy for a rogue like myself to blend into the shadows completely unnoticed. Carefully, I move from tree to tree and tent to tent, slowly making my way through the camp. As I near its heart, I find a group of people gathered around a small campfire. The group is composed of none other than Bilbo, Thranduil, Bard, two elven guards, and Legolas.

All but the guards and Bilbo are seated on logs that have been set up around the fire. Meanwhile, Bilbo stands beside the guards speaking to the two elven royals and the dragon-slayer.

While they talk, I stare at Legolas. His eyes are void of emotion, and look far darker than usual. I can only imagine how furious he was to see me there in the mountain. I can only hope he won't take it out on the hobbit.

"I see your point of view," I hear Bilbo say to them amid the conversation. "At the same time winter is coming on fast. Before long you will be having snow and what not, and supplies will be difficult-even for elves I imagine. Also there will be other difficulties," the hobbit explains.

Able to grasp that they've probably only just started their conversation based off of Bilbo's response and the heaviness still hidden his coat pocket, I step out of hiding and approach the group, knowing fully well that now was the time to intervene if we wanted the fastest solution.

"He speaks the truth," I speak up and they all turn to me. "You would be wise to listen to him, Bard and Thranduil."

Bilbo jumps and his eyes widen. "Aranel! You-"

I put my hand up to calm the squeaking hobbit. "Do not worry, Bilbo. I'm not here to hunt you. In fact, I agree with you," I explain.

Bilbo relaxes his shoulders hearing my words. He must've used up all of his courage tonight to come out here.

After I smile at the hobbit, pride welling within me after seeing his progress, I turn to face the others, who look rather concerned by my arrival. "Thranduil, Bard, I fear the treasure has ensnared Thorin's heart and mind. For days now he has not fully been himself. He spends hours in the treasury, ordering and threatening the other dwarves in search of the Arkenstone. The spell it has on him has faltered his line of reasoning, for he sees none despite our warnings. Moreover, he may very well send war to these lands."

Legolas furrows his brows at me after my last comment. "What do you mean?" he asks, but I don't miss the newfound coldness in his grey eyes.

"He has sent for Dain and the dwarves of Iron Hill," I tell them. "They are strong in number, and are now less than two days away. If they come, much more than Esgaroth will burn."

"Why do you tell us this?" Bard asks grimly. "Are you betraying your friends, or are you threatening us?"

I shake my head at the shem. "Neither. I'm simply trying to make it clear that we may stand at the brink of war over a pile of shiny baubles at the risk of many lives. I have no wish to see more suffering. I've seen enough in my time, as have the rest of us in this month alone." My words strike a chord with Bard, who looks down at the ground and nods his head in agreement. I then turn to the hobbit, sensing that now would be the ideal time to reveal our purpose. "Bilbo, you have come to them for a reason and I know of it. Show it to them," I insist.

Bilbo looks puzzled at my words for a moment, then bites his lip and reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a large, sparkling stone, the likes of which I have never seen. It's as if the entire night sky has gathered inside the stone's core and shines like a small white sun. "This is the Arkenstone of Thrain, the Heart of the Mountain; and it is also the heart of Thorin," Bilbo says. "He values it above a river of gold. I give it to you. It will aid you in your bargaining."

"But how is it yours to give?" Bard asks in a daze as Bilbo hands it to him.

Bilbo fidgets uncomfortably with his hands. "O well! It isn't exactly" he says. "But, well, I am willing to let it stand against all my claim, don't you know. I may be a burglar—or so they say. Personally I never really felt like one—but I am an honest one, I hope, more or less…" Smiling slightly, Bilbo shrugs his shoulders. His humbleness makes me smile, too. "Anyway I am going back now, and the dwarves can do what they like to me. I hope you will find it useful."

Thranduil looks at Bilbo with wonder. "Bilbo Baggins! You are more worthy to wear the armour of elf-princes than many that have looked more comely in it. But I wonder if Thorin Oakenshield will see it so. I have more knowledge of dwarves in general than you perhaps. I advise you to remain with us, and here you shall be honoured and thrice welcome."

"Thank you very much I am sure," Bilbo says with a bow. "But I don't think I ought to leave my friends like this, after all we have gone through together. And I promised to wake old Bombur at midnight, too! Really I must be going, and quickly." Bilbo glances at me anxiously.

"He will not be returning alone, Thranduil," I add and put my hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "I will keep my eye on him. If they try anything, they will have me to answer to and my bow."

Thranduil purses his lips and concedes, understanding our resolve. "Very well. Allow us to at least provide an escort fit for such company," the elven king says and waves to some elves in the distance.

While the small handful of elves assemble, Legolas stands up and steps forward. "I will escort them as well, Father," he insists and glances at me, his gaze causing my heart to drop.

"Very well," Thranduil agrees.

And just like that, I could tell that it was going to be a rather long night.

* * *

><p><strong>Legolas<strong>

The walk to the mountain was heavy with silence. During the entire stroll, no one said a word—although the hobbit certainly opened and close his mouth more than a few times before deciding against it.

After finally reaching the mountain, I inform the guards that came along with us to stay behind while I escort Bilbo and Aranel to the secret door. As soon as we reach it, Bilbo bows his head then quickly slips inside. However, before Aranel can follow after him, I grab her by the wrist and stop her.

She stops and stares at me, her cold blue eyes full of wonder. Then after apparently understanding I wasn't going to let her go without speaking to her first, she lowers her arm and purses her lips, resigning herself to my persistence.

I let go of her and the two of us cross our arms. Aranel leans against the wall and stares off to the side, looking far off into the distance. Silence hangs in the air and the tension between us is heavier than iron bars resting on my shoulders.

"Why didn't you say anything when you left?" I ask after a moment, my voice a hushed whisper.

Aranel continues to stare off to the side. "I didn't feel that it was necessary," she replies quietly.

"Not necessary?" I scoff. "You suddenly go missing, while you are still injured, and informing us you were moving forward alone wasn't necessary?"

Aranel turns and glares at me. "Look, you have known from the very beginning that my mission here has been to protect and assist the dwarves. And that's exactly what I have done. I did nothing wrong."

"Your involvement should've ended the moment Smaug fell!"

"Perhaps that would've been true originally, however, when there's a sudden army approaching the mountain with a lust for treasure, that changes the situation a bit."

I look up to the sky and sigh. "You're putting yourself in pointless danger."

"Pointless? I'm trying to stop a war from breaking out!" she retorts.

"By putting yourself right in the middle of it!"

"And what of it?" she snaps. "Why are you so concerned about what I choose to do?"

Her words catch me off guard. They remind me of my conversation with Tauriel and my mind runs blank. Words struggle to form as I stare at her with uncertainty. Unable to respond because I don't even know the answer myself, Aranel sighs and returns to her original position. "It is my choice, prince. And you have no say in it," she snarls.

Biting my lip, I pace a few step and rub the bridge of my nose. "What are you going to do if Thorin discovers your betrayal and turns on the both of you?" I ask, my frustration with this impossible woman rising.

"Then I will fight him," she says bluntly.

I turn to face her, completely exasperated. "It's that simple?"

She nods. "Yes, it's that simple."

Rubbing at my jawline, I nod knowing she won't change her mind. She is set in her ways. "Fine. I will not stop you," I forfeit. "However, you'll only have yourself to blame if your plan goes awry."

"I'd have it no other way," she replies.

And then without another word, Aranel escapes back into the mountain, the turnout of our conversation reminding me of earlier times.

**Author's note:** _Alright, I'm back everyone! I know it's taken awhile, but I'm getting back into the habit of writing. If you don't remember from earlier, the story is following more of the book than the movies now, although it will have it's own twist to it considering this is a fanfic. There are probably only around 7 or 8 more chapters left at this point, so get excited for the battle of the five armies! Thanks for reading! The next update will probably be in the next few days. :)_


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